The first thing Fitz registers is the sound of breathing.
Slow. Steady. Not his own.
His eyes flutter open, vision blurring, shifting.The room is dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the walls. The quiet hum of machines fills the air, a steady rhythm, grounding him.
For a second, hedoesn't know where he is.
Then—he does.
The hospital.
Pain pulses through him in dull, persistent waves. His body feels too heavy, his chest too tight.
He exhales slowly, his throat raw. Then—a flicker of movement.
Across the room, Olivia sits in a chair, legs crossed, laptop balanced on her knees. The soft glow of the screen casts light across her face, illuminating the faint crease in her brow.
She looks exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that settles into bones.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, poised, but she's not really typing. She's staring at the screen, unfocused.
Fitz just watches her for a moment.
He wonders how long she's been sitting there.
How long she's been carrying everything alone.
His chest tightens—not just from the pain.
A second passes.
Then another.
His lips part, voice hoarse but certain.
"…Hi."
Olivia freezes.
Her fingers, still over the keyboard, pause.
Slowly, her head lifts.
Her eyes meet his.
For a second, she doesn't answer.
Her throat works like she's swallowing down something unspoken.
Then, finally—soft, barely above a whisper—
"…Hi."
Silence stretches between them.
Not awkward.
Not tense.
Just heavy.
There's so much he could say.
So much she won't let herself say.
Instead, Fitz just breathes.
He closes his eyes for half a second, exhales.
And for that moment—just that moment—it's enough.
Then, the door opens.
The spell breaks.
The light shifts, and the quiet is gone.
The doctor steps inside, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.
Olivia shifts, sitting up straighter, slipping the exhaustion from her face like a mask.
And just like that—reality comes crashing back in.
The sterile brightness of the hospital room does little to ease Fitz's discomfort.
He sits stiffly on the exam table, his body aching in places he's learned to ignore.His chest is tight, his ribs a dull, throbbing reminder of what he's been through.
But it's the pounding behind his skull that makes him feel like the room is too small, too bright, too loud.
Dr. Adam Whitman, his physician, stands across from him, flipping through his medical chart. Olivia is perched in a chair nearby, arms crossed, watching them both. She hasn't said much yet—but he knows she's waiting.
Fitz doesn't have the energy to play defense today.
"Your recovery is progressing,"Dr. Whitman begins, too measured, too careful.
Fitz exhales sharply."But?"
Whitman meets his gaze."But we need to talk about the neurological symptoms."
Fitz's jaw tightens.
"Your head injury wasn't the most urgent concern when you arrived,"the doctor continues."Your chest wound, the blood loss—that's what we had to stabilize first."
Fitz already knows this.
"But now that you're awake, we're seeing the lingering effects."
Olivia shifts slightly in her seat."Such as?"
Whitman glances at her, then back at Fitz."Headaches. Sensitivity to light. Dizziness. And the tremors in your left hand."
Fitz stiffens. He knew they'd noticed.
"Is this temporary?"Olivia asks, voice sharp with concern.
Whitman hesitates.Too long.
"It's too soon to say," he admits."Some post-traumatic neurological symptoms improve over time. But given the impact to his skull, we need to monitor for any long-term deficits."
"Long-term?" Fitz's voice is tight.
"There's no way to predict how fully you'll recover," Whitman says, calm but firm."Brain injuries are unpredictable. You could see improvement in a few weeks, or it could take months. Some symptoms might linger indefinitely."
Fitz hates everything about that answer.
"I can work through it," he mutters.
Olivia snaps her head toward him, eyes narrowing."Are you serious?"
Fitz meets her gaze, his jaw locked.
"I don't have time to wait for this to fix itself."
Dr. Whitman sighs, clearly anticipating the pushback."Mr. President, pushing yourself too hard will only make it worse."
"I don't have a choice."
"Yes, you do,"Olivia cuts in."And you're going to make the right one."
Fitz exhales sharply.
"What do I need to do?"he finally asks.
Dr. Whitman folds his arms."Rest. Physical therapy. A controlled return to work. You'll need cognitive monitoring, and if the tremors persist, additional neurological testing."
Fitz shakes his head."I need to get back to the White House."
"Not like this."
"I don't have time to sit in a hospital room waiting for—"
"Fitz." Olivia's voice cuts through his frustration.
He stops.
She's staring at him.Not angry. Not frustrated. Just…steady. Unshaken. Immovable.
"We handle this the right way," she says softly, but there's no room for argument."You don't have to prove anything. Not to me. Not to anyone."
Fitz exhales slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple.
The headache hasn't stopped since the moment he woke up.
He hates that she's right.
But he knows she is.
Dr. Whitman clears his throat."I'll put together an updated recovery plan. But you have to take this seriously."
Fitz nods once.
He doesn't have to like it.
But he's listening.
For now.
The hallways blur past him in a haze of white and sterile fluorescent light. Fitz moves slowly, every step a battle against the ache in his chest, the tightness in his side, the faint tremor in his fingers.
The wheelchair was not an option. He'd made that clear.
The doctors had reluctantly agreed, with strict orders that he not push himself too hard. Olivia had been silent through the discussion, but the tension in her shoulders told him exactly what she thought.
Now, with every shaky breath, Fitz almost wishes he'd listened.
Almost.
But he refuses to meet weakness halfway.
Olivia walks beside him, her presence steady, certain, unwavering. She doesn't offer him a hand, doesn't try to slow his pace. She knows better.
She simply stays close—not quite touching, but there.
When they reach the NICU doors, Fitz stops.
His pulse pounds unevenly in his ears.
He thought he was prepared for this. He isn't.
Inside, through the large glass panels, rows of incubators line the softly lit room, each one housing a baby too small, too fragile. The hum of monitors and oxygen fills the air, mixing with the low voices of nurses moving carefully between them.
Teddy is in there.
His son.
Born too soon. Left to fight for his life without him.
A lump forms in Fitz's throat.
He wasn't there when Mellie died. He wasn't there when Teddy took his first breath.
Now, he has to face what that means.
A nurse approaches, offering a small smile."Mr. President, we've been expecting you."
Fitz nods once, the motion stiff. His body is exhausted, but his mind refuses to surrender.
"How is he?" His voice is hoarse.
The nurse's expression softens."He's stable. That's the most important thing."
Stable. Not safe. Not out of danger.
Fitz exhales sharply."I want to see him."
The nurse nods."Of course." She gestures for them to follow.
Fitz steps forward, and his breath catches the moment he sees him.
Teddy is impossibly small.
Too small.
Wires and tubes seem to cover his tiny body, his chest rising and falling with delicate, mechanical precision. His skin is stilltoo thin, too fragile, his little hands curled into soft, barely-there fists.
Fitz's vision blurs for a moment.
It's too much.
The weight of everything claws at him all at once—the loss of Mellie, the weeks he spent unconscious, the fact that his son has been fighting for his life without him.
His jaw clenches as he forces it all down.
A deep breath. Another. Steady. Stay steady.
The nurse watches him carefully."Would you like to hold him?"
The question hits like a punch.
Fitz blinks. His throat tightens. He wasn't expecting that.
He doesn't move.
He hasn't touched his son. Hasn't been near him. What if he's too weak? What if he hurts him?
The nurse senses his hesitation."You don't have to. But I think he'd like it."
Fitz swallows hard."He doesn't even know me."
The nurse smiles gently."Oh, but he does. Babies know their parents. They know love."
Fitz exhales, his chest tight and aching.
Slowly, hesitantly, he nods.
The nurse moves with practiced ease, disconnecting some of the wires and adjusting the tiny bundle in the incubator.Olivia steps closer but stays silent.
Fitz lowers himself carefully into the chair beside the incubator, his limbs stiff, his body weak.
Then, carefully,the nurse places Teddy into his arms.
Fitz barely breathes.
Teddy is so small. So impossibly light. A fragile, living piece of Mellie that she never got to hold.
His chest constricts painfully.
She should be here.
Fitz swallows past the lump in his throat, his fingers tracing gently over his son's impossibly small back.
Teddystirs slightly, making the softest sound.A tiny, barely-there cry.
And Fitz—Fitz breaks.
The walls he's been holding up crack, shatter.
His shoulders tense, his throat clenches, but he doesn't let go. He won't.
His free hand trembles as he carefully, gently cups the back of his son's head.
Olivia shifts slightly beside him, as if sensing the moment, but she doesn't say anything.
She lets him grieve.
He doesn't cry. Not really. But his breath hitches, and for a long, heavy moment, he just holds his son.
Holds him, and tries to accept what's been lost.
Holds him, and realizes what he still has left.
The steady rhythm of Teddy's breathing is the only thing keeping Fitz grounded.
Even with the hum of monitors, the quiet beeping of machines, and the gentle rustling of the NICU staff in the background, his world narrows to the tiny weight in his arms.
Teddy is so impossibly small.
Fitz tightens his grip—not too much, just enough to remind himself that he's here. That his son is here.
He should have been here sooner.
He can't keep thinking like that.
A nurse approaches quietly, offering him a small, reassuring smile."He likes being held."
Fitz swallows past the lump in his throat."Is he… in pain?"
The nurse shakes her head."No. But babies this small—everything is a challenge."
A new voice enters the space—Dr. Sutton, the attending neonatologist. She's tall, composed, but there's warmth in her demeanor. Someone used to delivering hard truths without making them unbearable.
"Mr. President." She greets him with a nod."It's good to see you here."
Fitz exhales, adjusting his hold on Teddy."Tell me about my son."
There's a pause, the kind that signals she's choosing her words carefully.
She steps closer, glancing at Teddy, then back at Fitz."Teddy was born at 26 weeks."
Fitz tenses.
He knows enough to understand what that means.
Dr. Sutton continues."At that gestation, he is considered extremely premature. Babies born this early face serious complications, and the first few weeks are critical. The fact that he is stable is a good sign, but he still has a long road ahead."
Fitz's jaw tightens."His lungs?"
"Underdeveloped," she confirms." At 26 weeks, the lungs are not ready to function on their own. He was placed on a ventilator at birth to help him breathe. He's since transitioned to CPAP, which is progress, but he still requires oxygen support."
Fitz shifts his gaze to the tiny cannula in Teddy's nose, delivering oxygen in soft, steady bursts.
"Will he ever breathe on his own?"His voice is controlled, but there's an edge to it.
Dr. Sutton doesn't shy away."We hope so. Many preemies at this stage develop a condition called bronchopulmonary dysplasia—chronic lung disease. Some recover completely, others struggle with breathing issues into childhood."
Fitz forces himself to breathe.
One battle at a time.
"And his heart?"
A beat. Then, a carefully measured answer.
"He has a patent ductus arteriosus—PDA."
Fitz clenches his jaw. He knew to expect that.
"How serious?"
"Right now, it's small. We're treating it with medication in the hopes that it will close on its own. If not, there's a possibility he'll need a procedure."
Surgery.
The word lodges in his chest like a blade.
Olivia must sense the shift in his posture because she steps closer, her presence quiet but steady.
Dr. Sutton softens her tone."His heart is strong. That's in his favor."
Like Mellie.
Fitznods once, slowly, forcing the tension in his shoulders to ease.
"What else?"
The doctor exhales gently."Brain development is another area we monitor closely. Preemies this young are at risk for brain bleeds, which can lead to long-term complications like cerebral palsy or developmental delays."
Fitz tenses again."Does he have one?"
Dr. Sutton shakes her head."No, not at this time. We've done regular ultrasounds, and so far, there are no signs of bleeding. But we will continue to monitor him."
Fitz nods, absorbing it all.
He isn't out of the woods. Not even close.
But he's fighting.
Dr. Sutton continues."We also need to monitor his vision and hearing."
Fitz's stomach tightens.
"Why?"
"Extremely premature babies are at risk for retinopathy of prematurity—ROP."Her voice remains steady, but Fitz can hearthe weight behind her words."It's a condition where abnormal blood vessels grow in the eyes. Some cases resolve on their own, but in more severe cases, it can lead to vision problems or even blindness."
Fitz stares at Teddy, at his closed, delicate eyelids, and the thought claws at his chest.
Blind.
He exhales sharply."How will you know?"
"We'll begin eye exams soon to assess the severity. If needed, there are treatments that can help prevent long-term damage."
Fitz nods stiffly, but his mind is already spiraling.
Henever even considered that his son might not be able to see him.
Dr. Sutton gives him a moment before continuing."Hearing is another concern. Premature babies are more susceptible to hearing impairments, especially due to their underdeveloped auditory structures and potential exposure to NICU interventions. We'll conduct screenings to ensure he's responding appropriately."
Fitz's jaw locks.
More uncertainty. More waiting.
He looks down at Teddy again, brushing his thumb lightly over his tiny back.
Too small. But alive.
That has to be enough.
Dr. Sutton watches him carefully."Do you have any questions?"
Fitz lifts his gaze to hers.
His voice is quiet, but certain.
"What do I need to do?"
There's no hesitation in her answer."Be here."
Fitz clenches his jaw.That's the one thing he's already failed at.
Dr. Sutton seems to understand."Babies like Teddy—babies born this early—they respond to touch, to voice, to presence. Your son is fighting, but he doesn't have to fight alone."
Fitz exhales slowly. He won't. Not anymore.
Dr. Sutton offers a final nod."We'll continue updating you on his progress. If anything changes, you'll be the first to know."
He nods, gripping Teddy just a little closer.
When she steps away, Fitz finally looks at Olivia.
Her expression is unreadable, but there's something softer in her eyes.
She doesn't say anything.
She doesn't have to.
For now, he just holds his son.
Fitz barely makes it to the door of his hospital suite before his body reminds him who's in charge.
Pain flares in his chest, sharp and relentless, while his side burns from the effort of standing too long. His breathturns shallow, his recovering lung struggling to keep up. His legs feel unsteady, weaker than they should be.
He clenches his jaw, gripping the doorframe for balance.
Damn it.
Behind him, Olivia shifts slightly, watching him carefully.Waiting.
He knows she won't stop him. But she's ready to catch him if he falls.
Fitz exhales, forcing his weight forward—one painful step, then another.
The second his palm leaves the doorframe, his knees nearly buckle.
"Jesus, do I need to get you a walker?"
Fitz turns his head slowly, chest still rising too fast, to find Cyrus Beene standing in the doorway.
The same as always. Smirking, unimpressed, looking at Fitz like he just caught him sneaking out of detention.
Fitz exhales, dragging a hand down his face before smirking right back."Cyrus."
"Mr. President."Cyrus steps inside, shaking his head with mock disappointment."I hate to break it to you, but you look like hell."
Fitz chuckles, the sound dry but genuine."That seems to be the consensus."
Cyrus tilts his head, grinning."Well, in fairness, getting shot three times will do that to a person."
Olivia exhales sharply, not amused.
Fitz, however, shakes his head in amusement."Good to see you too."
Cyrus gestures at him with a flourish."And yet, despite all medical advice, here you are, trying to walk around like John Wayne on his worst day."
Fitz gives him a pointed look."Not trying. Doing."
Cyrus crosses his arms, eyeing him."Right. And would 'doing' include gripping that doorframe like your life depends on it?"
Fitz sighs."Cyrus."
"Fine, fine." Cyrus waves a hand dramatically."I'll stop picking on the wounded."
A beat. Then—his grin sharpens.
"So, want to tell me when you decided to address the entire nation without informing me first?"
Fitz pauses.
His brow furrows."What?"
Olivia doesn't move, but he feels her tense.
Cyrus watches him carefully."The video, Fitz."
Fitz blinks."What video?"
Cyrus's smirk falters.
A slow, dawning realization spreads across his face.
"Oh, Liv," he sighs, shaking his head."You didn't tell him?"
Fitz turns fully toward Olivia."Tell me what?"
She keeps her expression calm, controlled. Too controlled.
That's when Fitz knows.
There's something.
Something big.
Cyrus watches the exchange, thenclaps his hands together. "Well. This just got interesting."
Olivia exhales, bracing herself.
"Fitz… you need to sit down."
He doesn't.
"Someone tell me what the hell is going on."
Cyrus grins, stepping in."Relax. You gave a wonderful speech. You were strong, composed, and inspiring. The American people ate it up."
Fitz narrows his eyes."I didn't give a speech."
Cyrus snaps his fingers."Exactly. And yet, you did."
Fitz's breath catches.His gaze flicks between Cyrus and Olivia."What the hell did you do?"
Cyrus sighs dramatically."Alright, fine. Let's all act shocked and horrified at what was, in reality, a brilliant display of crisis management."
Fitz isn't amused."Cyrus."
"We had to do something."Cyrus shrugs, casual as ever."The country was spiraling. The press was already circling like vultures, and your enemies were preparing to move in. We needed stability. We needed you."
Fitz stares at him."So you faked it."
Cyrus tilts his head."We shaped the narrative."
Fitz'sjaw tightens.
He turns to Olivia."You did this?"
She meets his gaze, unwavering."Yes."
Fitz exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
"You lied to the entire country."
Cyrus steps in before Olivia can answer."We protected the country."
Fitz lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head."You expect me to just go along with this?"
Cyrus smiles."I expect you to realize that it worked."
Silence.
Then, Cyrus steps closer, his voice lowering.
"Fitz, you weren't just unconscious. You were dead to them. They were ready to bury you. That video kept you alive."
Fitz knows Cyrus well enough to hear the truth in his voice.
This wasn't just about strategy.It wasabout survival.
Still, his stomach churns.
The world thinks he's stronger than he is.
And now, he has to make that lie a reality.
Fitz inhales sharply, then lets it out slow.
Finally, he lifts his gaze to Cyrus.
"Show me."
Cyrus grins."Now we're talking.
The laptop sits open on the hospital room table, a black screen waiting to show him a version of himself he doesn't remember.
Fitz stares at it, his jaw tight, every instinct telling him not to press play.
But he does.
The screen flickers to life, and there he is—him, but not.
His own face fills the frame ,calm, controlled, Presidential. His posture is strong, his voice steady as he speaks.
"I want to thank the American people for their patience as I recover. My doctors tell me I am improving every day, and I look forward to resuming my duties soon. Until then, I have full faith in my team to guide this nation forward."
Fitz goes still.
The man in the video looks like him, sounds like him, even moves like him.
But Fitz doesn't remembera single second of this.
His stomach tightens.
The video continues.
The Fitz in the video pauses at just the right moment, scanning the camera, filled with a quiet, reassuring strength. The perfect balance of humility and resilience.
Then, a final nod, and the screen fades to black.
Silence.
Fitz exhales slowly, pressing his fingers against the table.
It's a brilliant video.
Seamless. Convincing.
A lie.
He leans back, running a hand down his face, his pulsehammering.
Across from him, Cyrus watches, waiting. Olivia is still beside him, her expression unreadable.
He lets the silence sit.
Then—he laughs.
It's not amused. It's disbelieving. Sharp. Almost dangerous.
"This is impressive."
Cyrus grins."I know."
Fitz shakes his head, staring at the blank screen."Jesus Christ."
Olivia speaks first."It was necessary."
Fitz turns to her, his expressionhard to read."Was it?"
Her gaze is steady."Yes."
Fitz drags a hand through his hair, exhaling.
"I was unconscious. My wife is dead. And instead of telling the truth, you—" He gestures toward the screen,"—made me a damn ghost."
Cyrus leans forward, clasping his hands."No, Fitz. We kept you alive."
Fitz's jaw clenches.
Cyrus's voice softens, just slightly."You weren't here. The country needed you to be."
Fitz looks back at the screen, at the face that isn't really his.
It's perfect. Unquestionable.
A version of himself that doesn't exist anymore.
His hands curl into fists against the blanket.
Cyrus reads the shift immediately."We did what had to be done."
Fitz exhales sharply, shaking his head."And what happens now, Cy? Huh? What happens when I step in front of the cameras and don't look like that?"
Cyrus smirks."Then we make sure you do."
Silence.
Fitz glances down at his hands.His left one trembles just slightly.
Cyrus doesn't notice. Olivia does.
But she says nothing.
Fitz leans forward, bracing his arms on his knees."How many people know?"
Cyrus shrugs."Need-to-know basis. Which means, for the most part? No one."
Fitz lets out a slow breath, his mind already working through the fallout.
This isn't just about him.
If the truth gets out, the blowback will be catastrophic.
And yet...
Fitz looks back at the dark screen, at the man the world believes is still him.
That man doesn't struggle to breathe.
That man doesn't feel his legs nearly give out with every step.
That man isn't waking up to a world that moved on without him.
That man is still in control.
Fitz straightens, his spine stiff despite the pain.
"I assume you already have a plan."
Cyrus grins, slapping the table."Atta boy."
The video lingers in Fitz's mind long after the screen fades to black.
The version of himself the world believes in—strong, composed, Presidential—is nothing more than an illusion. A fabrication.
And Olivia created it.
He turns away from the laptop, his pulse a slow, steady thunder beneath his skin.
"How long were you planning to keep this from me?"
His voice is even—too even. The kind of calm that signals the storm hasn't hit yet.
Olivia doesn't flinch.
"Until you were ready to hear it."
Fitz exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face."And what else was I 'not ready' for?"
Silence.
That's all the answer he needs.
He pushes up from the chair, ignoring the protest of his body, the way his muscles tremble with the effort.
"Fitz—"Olivia starts, but he doesn't stop. He walks—slow, deliberate, every step a battle against his own body.
She watches him, shoulders squared, like she's bracing herself.
She should be.
He stops just in front of her."Tell me everything."
A beat.
Then, Olivia inhales, steady and measured.
"Sally took office."
Fitzs tills.
She delivers it cleanly, without hesitation.
"She was sworn in as Acting President two days after the shooting."
His jaw clenches, his pulse a slow burn beneath his skin.
Sally Langston.Sitting inhischair, behindhisdesk, making decisionsas if this country belongs to her.
Olivia doesn't stop.
"The Cabinet invoked the 25th Amendment. Cyrus fought it, but with you in critical condition and no clear timeline for your recovery, there was no choice."
Fitz lets out a sharp exhale, dragging a hand through his hair."So, I'm not the President anymore."
"You are,"Olivia says firmly."She's temporary. The moment you are declared fit to serve, the seat is yours again."
Helets out a dry laugh."Fit to serve."
Right now, he can barely stand for more than ten minutes without needing to sit down.
Right now,his left hand shakes when he tries to pick up a damn pen.
Right now, he is the furthest thing from the man in that video.
And Cyrus and Olivia,both know it.
Still, Olivia holds his gaze."Fitz, you're not out. But if you want to take back your office, you need to be strategic. You need to be ready."
"And in the meantime, I play along?"His voice is sharp, but there's no real anger behind it. He already knows the answer.
Olivia doesn't lie to him.
"Yes."
Fitz nods once, stiffly. Processing.
Then, his gaze hardens."What else?"
She hesitates. And that's how he knows there's more.
Fitz steps closer."Olivia."
Her shoulders rise and fall with her next breath.
"CPS came to the White House."
His blood runs cold.
"What?"
"They launched a welfare check on the kids."
The words hit him like a second bullet.
Fitz stares at her, unblinking."Why?"
Olivia doesn't hesitate this time.
"They were concerned about the children's well-being. You were in a coma, Mellie had just died, and there were questions about stability inside the White House."
His stomach tightens.
"Questions from who?"
"The media. Anonymous sources. People speculating whether the children were being properly cared for with everything happening."
Fitzdrags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply."So, CPS just… showed up?"
Olivia nods."They didn't file anything. Not officially. But they made it clear they were watching."
His pulse pounds. His kids. His children.Being watched. Investigated.
While he was unconscious.
While he was powerless to stop it.
He breathes through it, trying to settle the rising anger in his chest.
But Olivia isn't finished.
"Then Gerry wrote the letter."
Fitz stills.
"What?"
Olivia nods, meeting his gaze head-on."Gerry wrote a letter pretending to be you."
Fitz's breath catches.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"He sent it too few people in Congress. He wanted them to think you were ready to be reinstated."Olivia's voice is measured, careful."It was meant to help you. He never intended for it to go public."
Fitz staggers back a step, gripping the edge of the table.
His fourteen-year-old son.
Falsifying Presidential correspondence.
Trying to fix something no child should have to fix.
"Jesus Christ." His fingers dig into the table. "And you're telling me no one stopped him?"
Olivia shakes her head."No one knew. He didn't tell anyone."
Fitz drags a hand down his face, exhaling."And let me guess—it didn't stay private."
Her silence tells him everything.
Olivia finally says it."It got leaked."
Fitz'sstomach drops."How?"
Olivia presses her lips together but doesn't say anything.
Fitz exhales sharply, histemples throbbing."So now the entire country thinks I wrote that letter."
Olivia nods."And CPS came back after that. It escalated everything. They wanted to know if the kids were being used to push an agenda. If they were safe. If they needed intervention."
Fitz lets out a sharp, humorless laugh."Intervention?"
He looks at her, his expression tired but burning with frustration."Are you telling me they were considering taking my children?"
Olivia doesn't answer immediately.
And that silence tells him everything.
Fitz clenches his jaw, breathing deeply through his nose.
This is worse than he thought.
His son is in the public crosshairs. His daughter is grieving a mother he wasn't there to protect. And he was lying in a hospital bed while the country debated whether his own children were safe in his care.
He can't let this happen again.
His grip tightens on the chair beside him. His left hand shakes.
Olivia sees it.
But she doesn't say a word.
Fitz closes his eyes for a long moment, then lets out a slow breath.
"I need to see my kids."
Olivia nods."We can arrange that."
Fitz drags a hand over his face.
"And after that?"His voice is hoarse."I need to know exactly what I have to do to take back my presidency."
Olivia and Cyrus exchange a look.
Fitz catches it immediately.
There's more.
He squares his shoulders, ignoring the pain, ignoring the way his visionthreatens to blur.
"Tell me."
Olivia holds his gaze.
Then, finally—"You need to give another speech."
Fitz huffs a humorless laugh.
Of course he does.
Because one fake speech isn't enough.
Now, he has to play the part.
He exhales, nodding once.
"Then let's get to work."
Karen stands in the doorway.
Arms crossed. Shoulders tense.
But it's her face that hits him first.
She looks different.
Not just older. Smaller, somehow. Not just angry. Fragile underneath it.
She doesn't rush to him. She doesn't cry.
She just stares.
Fitz swallows hard, keeping his voice steady. "Hey."
Karen's lips press into a tight, thin line.
Gerry shifts beside her, mumbling a quiet, "Hi, Dad."
But Karen?
Karen doesn't move.
She doesn't blink.
Then—her breath hitches, her chin trembles—just for a second—before she grits her teeth and shoves it all down.
"Took you long enough."
It comes out sharp. Aimed to cut. But there's something wobbly underneath it—something that betrays how close she is to falling apart.
Fitz exhales. "I know."
Karen's hands ball into fists at her sides.
Her voice cracks when she says, "You almost died."
Not a question. Just fact. But not steady anymore. Not controlled.
Fitz nods, carefully. "I know."
Her breath shudders—like she's holding something back, something too big for her small frame—before her voice bursts out, fast and unfiltered:
"Do you?"
Gerry flinches, shifting awkwardly, glancing between them like he wants to stop this but doesn't know how.
Karen's shoulders heave, her chest rising too fast.
Her face is hard, but her hands are shaking.
That's what does it.
Not her words.
Not the anger in her voice.
But the way she's holding herself together, like if she lets go for even a second, she'll fall apart.
Fitz wants to reach for her.
But he's not sure if she'd let him.
"I should have been here." His voice is low, raw. "I should have woken up sooner."
Karen's eyes shine. She blinks fast, like she's fighting tears—then she snaps.
"Well, you didn't!"
The words explode out of her, loud and breaking and too much all at once.
Fitz takes it. Because he deserves it.
Gerry finally looks up. His voice is small.
"…Are you okay?"
The question catches Fitz off guard.
He expected anger. Resentment. Maybe even blame.
But not that.
Not concern.
Fitz exhales, forcing himself to be honest. "I'm trying to be."
Gerry nods.
His gaze flickers to Fitz's left hand, where a subtle tremor betrays him.
He sees it.
And Fitz knows he sees it.
But Gerry doesn't say anything.
Karen does.
"Mom's dead."
Fitz's chest tightens painfully.
"I know."
Silence.
It lingers. Heavy. Suffocating.
Karen doesn't elaborate.
Fitz doesn't press.
There's nothing else to say.
Karen blinks quickly, her face unreadable.
Gerry shifts his weight, looking lost in the silence.
Karen exhales sharply, her arms still crossed.
Then—quiet. Small.
"It doesn't matter."
Fitz frowns. "What doesn't?"
Karen finally meets his eyes.
Her lip wobbles.
Then—flat, shaky, too much and not enough all at once:
"That you're back."
Fitz feels that one in his chest.
Gerry swallows, his voice tight. "Everything's different now."
Fitz exhales. "I know."
Karen nods stiffly.
And Fitz realizes something.
They're waiting.
For him to say the right thing.
For him to prove he's really here.
But he's not sure what the right thing is anymore.
So he does the only thing he can.
He reaches out.
Not demanding. Not forcing.
Just offering.
A moment of hesitation.
Then—Gerry moves first.
He steps closer, just enough for Fitz to wrap an arm around him, pulling him in tight.
And Karen watches.
Fitz holds Gerry, eyes stinging, heartbeat slow and steady against his son's.
Gerry clings to his father's sleeve, silent.
Karen's fingers twitch.
She wants to.
She doesn't.
Not yet.
Instead, she blinks fast, then turns away.
"…We should go."
Fitz lets Gerry pull back.
Karen's already moving toward the door, her walls still up, but something in her eyes uncertain.
Fitz watches them go, his chest aching.
Not from his injuries.
From everything else.
He's back.
But nothing feels whole.
Not yet.
He just hopes it will be enough.
The news cycle is relentless. Every major network, every online publication, every social media platform is flooded with one story.
Breaking News:"President Grant Medically Cleared to Resume Duties."
White House Statement:"President Grant is progressing well in his recovery. He will address the nation from the White House this evening."
Strong and Steady: What to Expect from President Grant's Speech
The media machine churns, speculation running wild. Anchors and political analysts dissect every possible angle, their voices blending into an endless loop of debate and conjecture.
The Networks Prepare for the Event of the Year
CNN:
"Tonight, President Fitzgerald Grant III will step before the American people for the first time since the assassination attempt that left him fighting for his life. After weeks of speculation regarding the state of his recovery, this address is expected to reassure the public that he is, in fact, ready to lead."
FOX NEWS:
"With Acting President Langston occupying the Oval Office in his absence, many are wondering—will this be a return to form, or is this speech a carefully controlled illusion? Sources inside the White House insist the President is strong enough to resume his duties, but critics are already questioning the lack of transparency surrounding his recovery."
MSNBC:
"What we know for certain is that President Grant's return comes at a crucial moment for this administration. The public needs reassurance. His staff needs stability. The world needs to see that America is not faltering. But what happens if this appearance raises more questions than answers?"
The stage is set.
Supporters Rally:
"He's back! We need him now more than ever!"
"Fitz is the only real leader we have. No one else belongs in that office."
"We stand with President Grant!"
Skeptics & Critics Voice Doubts:
"This speech is going to be theater, nothing more."
"No Q&A? No press allowed to see him up close? Something isn't right."
"If he's truly recovered, why has the White House been so secretive?"
Conspiracy Theorists Light Up Social Media:
"The man we'll see tonight? It's AI-generated. They're deepfaking the President."
"They're covering up how bad his condition really is."
"Fitz isn't coming back. They're just stalling."
Every corner of the country is waiting.
And none of them know the truth.
The halls of the West Wing hum with tension.
Every detail has been meticulously planned. The lighting. The camera angles. The controlled, choreographed optics that will sell the illusion of strength.
Cyrus paces, phone in hand, making last-minute adjustments. "No live shots from the side. The lighting needs to soften his face—hide the weight loss. Keep the cameras wide."
Aides whisper to each other, stress clinging to the walls. The stakes couldn't be higher.
Behind a closed door, Fitz sits in silence.
His suit is perfect. His tie flawless.
But his hands shake.
His breath is shallow, his body already exhausted.
He took the pain meds. They aren't working fast enough.
He can't afford this.
Not tonight.
A knock at the door.
Olivia enters first. Cautious. Calculated. Watching him.
She doesn't speak right away, just scans his face—searching for cracks in the armor.
He doesn't give her any.
"You ready?" Her voice is low, but it's not really a question.
Fitz presses his hands against the arms of his chair. Slowly, methodically, he rises. His body protests every movement, but he doesn't let it show.
He buttons his suit jacket.
He smooths the lapel.
His mask is in place.
"Let's go."
Olivia doesn't miss the way he exhales—measured, slow, controlled.
Like he's already conserving what little strength he has left.
Like he knows this is going to cost him.
And for the first time since this all started—she isn't sure he's going to make it.
The muffled sounds of the press waiting in the Briefing Room seep through the walls. The low hum of whispered conversations, the occasional cough, the quiet shuffle of movement as cameras are adjusted, reporters poised with their notepads and recorders.
They're all waiting.
Waiting for their president.
Waiting for a man who barely made it out of his chair.
Fitz stands near the mirror in the private holding room adjacent to the Briefing Room, hands braced against the counter. His reflection stares back at him,palms flat, shoulders stiff, jaw set.
The suit is perfect. The tie is flawless. Every inch of him constructed to project strength.
But his hands won't stop shaking.
His left hand, in particular, betrays him. Subtle, but noticeable if anyone were to look too closely.
He exhales slowly. Forces the tremor down, grips the edge of the counter just a little tighter. He can do this.
He has to.
Behind him, Olivia and Cyrus stand on opposite sides of the room.
She watches him, eyes sharp, unreadable. Cyrus, on the other hand, busies himself checking his watch, ever the picture of impatient efficiency.
"We don't have time for nerves," Cyrus says, his tone clipped. "You walk out there, you say what we planned, and you walk out. Two minutes, tops."
Fitz lifts his head, meets Cyrus's gaze in the mirror. "I know how long my own damn speech is, Cyrus."
Cyrus lifts a brow, unimpressed. "Then I don't know what we're doing here."
Olivia crosses her arms, speaking before Fitz can. "We're making sure this is a good idea."
Cyrus snorts. "Oh, Liv, come on. We're so far past that, the train left the station hours ago."
Fitz straightens slowly, forcing his legs to hold steady beneath him as he turns. "I'll make it through the speech."
Olivia's expression doesn't shift. "At what cost?"
He clenches his jaw. "It doesn't matter."
Cyrus steps forward. "It does, actually. Because we need to make sure this works." He points a finger at Fitz's chest. "If you so much as hesitate—if you stammer, if you look weak—this entire thing backfires."
Fitz exhales through his nose, his patience thinning."I know what's at stake, Cyrus."
Cyrus doesn't blink. "Do you?"
The tension in the room thickens.
"You want to hesitate? You want to consider the cost?" Cyrus scoffs, taking a step back and gesturing vaguely to the door. "There's a room full of press waiting for you to slip up. And Sally Langston? She's watching this with a bottle of champagne in her hand, praying to whatever self-righteous god she worships that you fall apart."
Fitz's fingers curl into his palms.
Cyrus leans in. "If you want your White House back, you go out there, and you do this."
Silence.
Cyrus lets the words settle, then adjusts his tie and turns to Olivia."What's the problem here? He's ready."
Olivia doesn't answer immediately.
She's watching Fitz—watching the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast, the way his left hand is still twitching at his side.
Finally, she speaks. "If you collapse on live television, there's no coming back from it."
Fitz tenses.
"That's not going to happen," he says evenly.
Olivia lifts a brow. "You sure about that?"
He meets her gaze head-on. "Yes."
A beat.
Cyrus claps his hands once. "Great. That's settled. Show time."
Olivia doesn't move. She keeps staring at Fitz, waiting for something. Maybe waiting for him to admit that this is too much.
But he won't.
So finally, she sighs, straightens her jacket, and walks to the door.
She doesn't open it. Not yet.
Instead, she looks back at Fitz one last time.
"If you feel yourself slipping," she says quietly, "pull back. Let it be short. Let them wonder. But don't push too far."
Fitz doesn't answer.
Because he already knows he's going to push.
And he already knows he's going to regret it.
Cyrus gestures at the door. "Let's go."
Olivia opens it.
The noise from the Briefing Room rushes in.
And Fitz steps forward.
This is the Moment They've Been Waiting For
The doors to the Briefing Room open.
The cameras turn. The world holds its breath.
And Fitz steps into the light.
The doors open.
Bright lights flood the White House Briefing Room, cameras flash, and a wave of silence washes over the press.The moment has arrived.
Fitz steps forward. Controlled. Confident. Presidential.
Every movement is calculated. His stride is steady, measured. His shoulders square. The way he grips the podium—firm, unwavering.
He looks strong.
He looks ready.
And that's all that matters.
Fitz's voice is clear, steady. Not too slow, not too fast. Just right.
"Good evening."
The room stills, cameras rolling, the entire country holding its breath.
"I want to thank the American people for their patience as I recover. Our country has endured a difficult few weeks. But if there is one thing I have always believed, it is this—America does not falter. And neither do I."
He lets the words settle. Commanding. Certain.
"I am grateful to my doctors, my staff, and most of all, to my family for standing by me. My recovery is progressing every day, and I look forward to resuming my duties fully in the days ahead."
Each pause is measured, intentional. It allows his breath to catch up. His body to adjust.
"The work of this administration has not stopped. My team has kept this country running in my absence, and for that, I thank them. But let me be clear—I am here. And I am ready to move forward."
There it is. The moment. The declaration. The words designed to kill any doubt.
His grip on the podium tightens.
His vision tilts—just for a second.
The air feels too thin. His heart beats too loud.
One more line.
"This country has always been defined by resilience. And I am honored to continue serving as your President."
A final pause.
"Thank you."
The room erupts in applause.
Cameras flash, reporters scramble for reactions, the illusion of strength fully cemented.
Fitz turns away, walks off stage.
He makes it out of the public eye.
He makes it through the door.
And then—his body gives out.
His knees buckle.
His breath vanishes.
The room spins, then tilts.
His left hand shakes violently, fingers curling in on themselves as his body surrenders to the exhaustion.
His head hits the wall first, then his shoulder slams against the nearest surface, unsteady, struggling.
A voice—Olivia's—sharp and immediate.
"Fitz!"
She's at his side in an instant. Hands gripping his arms, trying to hold him up, but he's too heavy, too weak, and the weight of everything he just did crushes him all at once.
Cyrus moves slower. Watching. Calculating. Assessing the damage.
Fitz fights to stay upright, but his body won't listen.
His chest burns. His lungs refuse to work properly.
Fitz's body is unresponsive.
His weight is too heavy, his breath too shallow, his face pale in the dim light of the room. Olivia grips his arm, one hand pressing against his chest as if she can will his lungs to work properly.
"Fitz!" Her voice is sharp, urgent, but there's no answer.
She presses her fingers against his pulse point. Too fast. Too weak.
Her stomach knots.
This is exactly what she was afraid of.
Across from her, Cyrus watches. Not panicked. Not shocked. Just waiting. Calculating.
"Get the doctors," Olivia snaps, her voice a razor's edge.
"No."
Fitz's voice is a ghost of itself, hoarse and barely there.
His eyelids flutter. His head lolls slightly before he forces himself upright, muscles trembling with the effort. Olivia tightens her grip on him, steadying him, refusing to let go.
"You pushed him too hard," she fires at Cyrus, voice shaking with anger. "This wasn't necessary."
Cyrus tilts his head, unbothered. "Wasn't it?"
Olivia's eyes flash."Damn it, Cyrus."
Cyrus lets out a short breath, then squats beside Fitz, eyes sharp as he studies him.
"We told the country you were ready," he says, voice cool, unreadable."You told the country you were ready."
Fitz tries to shift, tries to speak, but his body isn't cooperating. He leans his head against the wall for just a second, his chest still rising too fast, too uneven.
Olivia glares at Cyrus."He needs rest."
"And we'll get to that,"Cyrus replies smoothly."But let's be honest—how much rest do you think he's going to get now?"
Olivia's jaw locks.
"You used him."
Cyrus shrugs."I did what needed to be done."
Olivia wants to hit him. Wants to make him feel even a fraction of the helplessness she just felt watching Fitz collapse.
Instead, she turns back to Fitz, voice gentler, firmer.
"You're done for tonight."
Fitz finally manages to lift his head, eyes heavy, but awake."I just need a minute."
Olivia swallows hard, fingers still gripping his arm."You almost passed out on the damn floor, Fitz. You're done."
"She's right," Cyrus agrees, but there's something in his voice, something that makes Olivia's skin prickle. Too smooth. Too prepared.
Cyrus pats Fitz's shoulder lightly before standing, then leans down, just enough for only Fitz to hear.
His voice is quiet, low, the words cutting straight through the exhaustion and settling in Fitz's chest like a stone.
"Do you think Olivia Pope would love a weak man?"
Fitz freezes.
His jaw tightens.
But he doesn't respond.
Cyrus steps back, watching, waiting. A smirk—just a ghost of one—flashes across his face before he turns.
"Rest up, Mr. President. Tomorrow's another day."
Then he's gone.
Leaving Olivia seething, and Fitz—too tired to argue, but not tired enough to forget.
And maybe that's exactly what Cyrus wanted.
Fitz is still too pale.
Too weak.
He's upright, but Olivia can see the strain in the way he sits—back against the couch, his left hand resting deliberately on his knee, concealing the tremor he doesn't think she noticed. His breath is still a little too shallow, his body still recovering from the speech and the collapse that followed.
She watches him carefully.
He watches the door—the same door Cyrus walked out of minutes ago.
She knows exactly what he's thinking.
Exactly what ever Cyrus left him with.
"Do you think Olivia Pope would love a weak man?"
Fitz finally exhales, shifts against the cushions, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Don't," Olivia says, her voice sharp.
Fitz glances up."Don't what?"
"Don't let him get in your head."
His jaw tightens."He's not."
"Bullshit."
She says it so easily, so definitively, that Fitz almost smirks. Almost.
Instead, he sighs and leans his head back against the couch."I know what I'm doing, Liv."
"Do you?" Olivia folds her arms, stepping closer."Because from where I'm standing, Cyrus just ran you into the ground, and the second you were coherent again, he made sure you weren't thinking about that—you were thinking about proving him wrong."
Fitz doesn't answer right away.
Which only proves her point.
Olivia exhales, softer this time. She runs a hand over her forehead."You almost passed out on the damn floor, Fitz."
He looks away.
She sits down beside him, close, but not touching. Not yet.
"You need to rest." she says.
"I will."
"Not just for an hour. Not just until you think you can stand without help."
Fitz presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose.
"Cyrus will push you until you break," Olivia says."And I need you to not let that happen."
A beat.
Then Fitz nods, just slightly.
She'll take it.
For now.
But they aren't done.
There's something else.
Something Olivia has been holding off on.
And Fitz—he feels the shift.
He watches her, waiting, sensing the change in the air between them.
And finally, Olivia swallows, measures her words.
"Mellie."
Fitz stills.
His breath hitches just slightly.
But he doesn't speak.
Olivia continues, voice steady, but softer than before."She hasn't been buried yet."
The words land heavy, pressing between them.
Fitz blinks."What?"
"I waited," Olivia says. "I didn't—"She shakes her head." It didn't feel right to—"
To bury her without you.
Fitz's throat tightens.
He should have known.
He should have expected it.
But still—he wasn't ready for it.
He nods slowly, swallowing against the weight in his chest.
"When?" His voice is quieter now.
"As soon as you're able."
Silence.
Olivia watches him.
He looks away.
And for the first time tonight, he doesn't care about looking strong.
Fitz finds Gerry in one of the smaller sitting rooms, curled up in an armchair, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the phone screen in his hands.
He doesn't look up when Fitz enters.
Fitz doesn't rush him.
He moves carefully, lowering himself into the chair across from his son, feeling the way his body still protests after everything today. He shouldn't be up, shouldn't be out of bed—but this? This can't wait.
Gerry finally glances up, just for a second. His eyes flick over Fitz—assessing, checking. Then, just as quickly, he looks back down.
"You shouldn't be walking around."
Fitz exhales, a small, tired smirk tugging at his lips."That's what everyone keeps telling me."
Gerry doesn't laugh.
Doesn't even smile.
And that's when Fitz knows.
This isn't just about him.
This is about everything.
"I know about the letter."
Gerry's fingers tighten around his phone.
His jaw locks. His shoulders tense. He nods—just once, stiffly.
"Olivia told me,"Fitz continues, voice even, steady. "I know you wrote it."
A beat of silence.
Then—Gerry exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before letting it drop into his lap.
"I had to do something."
Fitz studies him. The weight of those words.
"You thought Olivia couldn't fix it."
Gerry swallows hard. "She always fixes things."
"Always." His voice is rough, but sure. "But this time..." He shakes his head, his hands clenching into fists. "She couldn't. And I didn't know what else to do."
His shoulders shake—just barely.
Fitz stays quiet. Let him talk.
"The press was tearing her apart. Everyone was saying you were gone. CPS was involved. Sally was acting like she already had your job. It was—it was all falling apart, and she just kept trying to hold everything together, but she couldn't. Not this time."
Gerry finally looks up, and Fitz sees it.
The exhaustion.
The frustration.
The quiet, desperate fear that he had to fix it because no one else could.
"I wasn't trying to make a mess," Gerry says, voice breaking slightly. "I just—I just wanted to make it stop."
Fitz leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching his son.
"So, you tried to protect her."
Gerry nods, quickly. "Yeah." Then—softer, smaller— "I just wanted to help."
Fitz feels that in his chest.
"Gerry."
Gerry drops his gaze again.
Fitz reaches out, resting a firm hand on his son's arm."Look at me."
Gerry hesitates, then lifts his head.
"You didn't fail her."
Gerry blinks fast, his jaw tightening.
"You hear me?" Fitz squeezes his arm, steady. "You didn't fail her. You didn't fail me."
Gerry shakes his head."It got leaked. It blew up. It made everything worse."
"That wasn't you."
"It feels like it was."
Fitz sighs, dragging a hand down his face before leaning back slightly."You thought about what was best. You saw a problem, and you stepped in."
A beat.
"That's what a leader does."
Gerry looks at him, searching, his throat bobbing as he swallows.
"But leaders also have to live with the consequences."
Gerry nods stiffly, his shoulders sinking slightly.
Fitz softens his voice."That part isn't easy. But you don't have to do it alone."
Gerry finally lets out a slow, shaky breath.
Maybe he believes it.
Maybe not yet.
But at least, for tonight, he's not.
Fitz leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly. His body is heavy with exhaustion, but his mind is already moving forward.
There's too much left unfinished.
Across from him, Olivia watches him carefully. She knows the way his mind works—knows he won't stop until every fire is put out.
"Cyrus knows you know," Fitz mutters, referring to the letter as he drags a hand over his face.
Olivia nods."We had it out already."
He smirks, just slightly."I bet that was a hell of a conversation."
Olivia doesn't deny it.
"And?" Fitz asks.
"And he's still Cyrus." Her tone is even, but there's an edge beneath it."He's not going to apologize, and he's not going to stop maneuvering."
Fitz scoffs."Of course not."
But they don't have time to dwell on it.
"CPS."Fitz shifts, ignoring the ache in his ribs."What's our move?"
Olivia leans forward, hands clasped together."They were already circling before the letter. Mellie was gone, you were unconscious, and there was concern about stability in the White House. The letter just escalated things."
Fitz's jaw tightens."How bad is it?"
"Not bad enough for them to act yet. But if anything else happens—if there's any instability—they will. And next time, it won't just be a few questions."
Fitz clenches his fists."They think I can't take care of my own children."
"They think the White House has been unstable, and they're not wrong."Olivia meets his gaze head-on."But we control what happens next."
Fitz takes a slow breath."We show them stability."
"Exactly."Olivia nods."Karen and Gerry are safe. The White House is secure. And you?"She tilts her head."You are exactly what they need to see—a father who is present, in control, capable."
Fitz exhales through his nose."You mean the version of me we put on camera."
Olivia doesn't flinch."It's the version they need to see."
He knows she's right.
"And Sally?" Fitz asks, already anticipating the next battle.
Olivia's expression hardens."She's waiting for you to stumble. She's already positioning herself as the one who held this country together in your absence. If she keeps gaining ground, people will start believing she belongs in that office."
Fitz shakes his head."She can't legally keep it."
"Legally? No. But politically? If she convinces enough people that you're still too weak, she can delay the transition. She can push for hearings, stir the public against you. If we wait too long to shut her down, we won't be able to control the narrative."
Fitz knows this game too well.
He isn't about to let Sally Langston steal his presidency.
"So we push back."
Olivia nods."We make it clear that you are back before she can gather enough power to challenge it."
Silence stretches between them.
Fitz exhales, rolling his shoulders back, already feeling the weight of the battle ahead.
"Do I even get a second to breathe?" he mutters.
Olivia smirks, just slightly. "Not if we want to win."
Fitz lets that settle.
Then he straightens.
"Alright. Let's win."
Fitz sits at the head of the table in the West Wing's private conference room, his posture steady, controlled. Across from him, Olivia sits with her tablet in front of her, flipping through documents with a sharp efficiency that only she can pull off under pressure.
The CPS representatives, Denise Walker and Mark Eaton, sit across from them, their expressions unreadable, their folders stacked neatly in front of them.
It's not the first time Fitz has dealt with bureaucratic scrutiny.
But it's the first time the target of it has been his own children.
And he won't allow that.
Olivia speaks first, her voice crisp and authoritative."You requested this follow-up meeting to assess whether further involvement from CPS is necessary. Let me make it clear—it's not."
Denise folds her hands on the table."Ms. Pope, we appreciate the administration's cooperation. However, there were significant concerns raised following President Grant's hospitalization and the circumstances surrounding the children's care."
Mark nods, his expression remaining neutral."We needed to ensure they were in a safe and stable environment."
Fitz finally speaks."You've done that."His voice is even, firm."Karen and Gerry are safe. They're at home. They have the support they need. That was never in question."
Denise doesn't flinch."With respect, Mr. President, it was. The First Lady's sudden passing, your extended medical condition, and the lack of transparency surrounding the situation raised flags. We wouldn't be doing our jobs if we ignored them."
Fitz grits his teeth."You've spoken to my children. You've spoken to my staff. You've seen the stability of this household."
He levels them with a sharp, unyielding gaze.
"Unless you have new concerns, I believe this conversation is over."
Denise and Mark exchange a glance.
Finally, Mark clears his throat and nods."We have reviewed all necessary reports and found no immediate concerns regarding the well-being of Karen and Fitzgerald "Gerry" Grant. With that said, we will be closing this case."
A beat.
"Effective immediately."
Fitz doesn't react outwardly, but Olivia catches the small shift in his shoulders, the weight lifting just slightly.
Denise purses her lips but nods."Thank you for your cooperation."
Neither Fitz nor Olivia bother to offer gratitude in return.
Because this should never have been a question in the first place.
Mark stands first, gathering his paperwork."We'll file the formal closure report by the end of the day."
Fitz nods once."Good."
The CPS representatives exit the room, leaving only Fitz and Olivia behind.
Silence lingers.
Fitz exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw."That's done."
Olivia watches him carefully."For now."
Fitz lifts a brow.
"They won't be back unless something new forces them to be."Olivia closes her tablet and leans forward, her eyes sharp."Which means there won't be any more room for mistakes."
Fitz holds her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.
No more weaknesses.
No more slip-ups.
No more ammunition for their enemies.
Fitz leans back, fingers tapping lightly against the table before nodding once."Then let's make sure there aren't any."
Fitz exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face.The weight of the day is pressing down on him, heavier than before.
His ribs ache, his side burns, but it's his head that's the worst of it.
The dull, pounding pressure behind his skull has been there since the moment he woke up. Too much talking, too much thinking, too much pushing himself.
And Olivia sees it.
She watches him from across the room, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
But he knows her too well.
She's furious.
"You can't keep doing this,"she says finally, her voice sharp, edged with something dangerously close to worry.
Fitz clenches his jaw."Doing what?"
"Acting like this isn't killing you."
Fitz scoffs, shaking his head—and immediately regrets it.The motion makes the room tilt slightly. He blinks hard, pressing his fingers to his temple.
Olivia catches it.
"You collapsed earlier, Fitz," she says, stepping forward."You could barely make it out of the damn room before your body gave out. That's not fine."
Fitz grits his teeth, forcing himself to focus."I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
She's closer now, and he can see it—the frustration, the exhaustion, but also the fear.
He hates that. Hates that she's worried about him.
"I have work to do,"he mutters.
"You need to rest."
Fitz lets out a rough breath,dragging a hand through his hair.
And that's when Olivia shifts.
"You should have told me."
Fitz frowns, looking up at her. "Told you what?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. "That you named me as the kids' guardian."
Fitz stiffens.
His stomach tightens.
"I found out from Cyrus,"Olivia continues, her voice sharp but calm—the kind of calm that comes right before a storm."I asked him who you named in your living will, and he told me."
Fitz exhales slowly.
"Liv—"
"Not from you."Olivia cuts him off, her voice colder now."Not when you wrote it. Not when you put my name down next to your children's future."
Fitz doesn't look away.
Because she's right.
"Why me, Fitz?" Her voice is quieter now, but still demanding.
Fitz shifts in his chair, his head pounding.He presses his fingers against his temple, trying to will away the pressure.
"Because I trust you," he says finally.
Olivia lets out a small, hollow laugh."That's not enough."
Fitz knows that.
He exhales, shaking his head slightly—another mistake. The dizziness creeps back in, just enough to make him grip the edge of the chair.
Olivia sees it.
And that's what pushes her over the edge.
"You didn't think I deserved to know?"
Fitz doesn't answer.
Because he doesn't have one.
Olivia steps closer.
"You decided that if something happened to you, I'd be the one raising your children. And you didn't think that was worth telling me?"
Fitz rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion pressing in hard.
"I wasn't planning on getting shot, Liv."
She doesn't laugh.
Doesn't let him off the hook.
Because this isn't about that.
"That's not the point,"she says softly.
Fitz drags in a slow breath, his head pounding harder, his body aching from the weight of this entire conversation.
But she's still here.
Still waiting.
And for the first time, he's too damn tired to fight it.
The door clicks shut behind Olivia.
She leans against it, just for a second.
Her body is too heavy, too tight, exhaustion pressing into her ribs, curling around her spine. She drags in a slow breath, but it does nothing to clear the weight sitting on her chest.
The room is quiet—a silence so stark it feels foreign after weeks of constant movement, of fights and decisions and fixing things that shouldn't have needed fixing.
She forces herself forward, her fingers slow as she unbuttons her jacket, slipping it off. She moves on autopilot, unhooking her heels, stepping out of them. The press of the hardwood against her bare feet is the first real sensation she's felt in hours.
She sits on the edge of the bed, pressing her palms into her thighs, staring at the floor.
Fitz is awake.
CPS is handled.
The battles still rage outside this room—Sally, the press, the presidency hanging in the balance.
But Olivia is done.
Just for tonight.
She drags a hand through her hair, her fingers gripping tight at the roots, holding onto something—anything—to keep herself upright.
She doesn't cry.
She doesn't shake.
She just… stops.
And then—movement.
A shift at the doorway. A hesitant presence, hovering.
Olivia looks up.
Karen.
She's standing there, arms crossed, her posture stiff, defensive—but her eyes give her away.
She wasn't expecting to see Olivia like this.
She wasn't expecting to see the cracks.
For so long, Olivia has been the one in control. The one who always has the answers, the strategy, the next move.
But now—she just looks tired.
Karen's fingers twitch at her sides.
She doesn't speak.
Neither does Olivia.
Karen shifts on her feet. Fidgeting.
Then—barely above a whisper, a small, hesitant voice:
"…Are you okay?"
The words are awkward, forced—like she isn't sure she wants to say them.
Like she isn't sure she wants the answer.
Olivia freezes for half a second.
Then, she nods. Small. Tired.
"I'm okay."
Karen frowns. Like she doesn't quite believe her.
Like she isn't sure why she even asked.
She shifts again, biting her lip, her arms still hugging her own ribs like she's trying to keep herself from unraveling.
Olivia doesn't push.
She just offers another small nod.
"Good night, Karen."
A pause.
Karen lingers.
Her hands unclench.
Then—she nods back. Small. Hesitant.
And walks away.
Not an apology.
Not forgiveness.
But something.
A crack in the ice.
A start.