The wind is sharp and cold.
A gray sky looms overhead as the funeral procession moves slowly toward the grand steps of the cathedral.
Fitz walks at the front, his black suit pressed but slightly loose around his frame, a testament to the weight he's lost since waking up.
His expression is unreadable.
Stoic. Composed. Every muscle in his body locked into place.
The world is watching.
Not just mourning,watching.
The cameras are set at a respectful distance, but he can feel them, the eyes of the press, the Cabinet, the country—all waiting for confirmation.
That he is strong. That he is still capable.
That he is still the President.
Beside him, Gerry walks with measured steps, his jaw clenched.He is fourteen years old and carrying the weight of a man.
Karen is on his other side, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her face locked in a cold mask.
And Olivia—she's just behind them, close enough to reach for him if she needs to.
Fitz doesn't realize he's clenching his fists until his pulse begins pounding against his temples.
His body is tired.More than tired—it's failing him.
His legs feel heavier with every step.
His chest is tight.
His left hand twitches at his side.
He clenches his jaw. Not now.
He forces himself forward.
The casket is being lifted, Mellie's flag-draped coffin carried ahead, and Fitz keeps moving, because he has to.
For her.
For them.
For the country.
But then—his vision swims.
A slow, insidious wave of dizziness.
His breath catches.
His knees threaten to buckle.
He sways—barely, but enough.
And instantly—there are hands on him.
Gerry, his grip tight around his father's arm.
Olivia, smooth, steady, an anchor at his side.
Fitz inhales sharply, willing himself to stay upright.
His fingers flex, reaching for something, anything.
Karen moves closer, but she doesn't touch him. Not yet.
The cameras are still rolling.
To the world, this is grief.
A mourning husband, a father holding on to his children, their unwavering presence keeping him standing.
No one sees the real struggle.
No one sees how much he's fighting his own body.
But Gerry does.
And so does Olivia.
Fitz takes a breath. Locks it down.
Then, carefully, he straightens again.
And they keep walking.
Together.
The quiet inside the residence is suffocating.
The funeral had been controlled chaos, the world watching Fitz say goodbye to his wife, analyzing every move, every breath, every flicker of emotion.
Now, it's just them.
And Fitz is unraveling.
Olivia finds him alone, standing by the window, his back rigid, his hands pressed against the ledge like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
She takes a step forward, her voice soft, careful. "Fitz."
He doesn't turn.
"I'm fine."
A lie.
A bad one.
She crosses her arms, watching him carefully. "You almost collapsed today."
His shoulders tense. "But I didn't."
"That's not the point."
He lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "What do you want me to say, Liv? That I'm tired? That I'm in pain? That I lost my wife and my body is falling apart while my presidency hangs by a thread?"
His voice cracks on the last part.
Olivia's chest tightens.
"You don't have to say it," she murmurs. "I see it."
Fitz finally turns, and the look in his eyes nearly guts her.
He looks exhausted. Angry. Defeated.
"I can't afford to fall apart." His voice is rough. "Not now. Not when I have to fight for everything. For my kids. For my presidency. For myself."
"You don't have to do it alone."
"Yes, I do." His jaw clenches. "Because no one else is going to fix this for me."
"That's not true."
He laughs bitterly. "Isn't it?"
A long silence stretches between them.
Olivia steps closer, voice steady. "Fitz, I know you're scared. I know you feel like everything is slipping away. But pushing yourself like this—ignoring what your body is telling you—isn't strength. It's reckless."
His chest rises and falls sharply.
"Then tell me, Olivia—what the hell am I supposed to do?"
Her lips press together.
"Start by letting me help you."
Fitz exhales, dragging a hand over his face. He's tired. He's breaking.
And she's the only one standing between him and the edge.
He doesn't answer.
But he doesn't push her away, either.
And right now, that's enough.
Cyrus doesn't waste time.
The funeral had barely ended, the weight of it still clinging to Fitz's skin, but Cyrus isn't interested in grief.
He's interested in strategy.
And Fitz should've known this was coming.
"It worked."
Fitz drags a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. "Jesus, Cyrus. My wife was buried today."
"And it worked," Cyrus repeats, stepping closer. "The country saw their President—a grieving husband, a devoted father, standing strong in the face of unimaginable loss. You played the part beautifully, Fitz."
Fitz's stomach twists. Played the part.
He should be angry.
He should tell Cyrus to get the hell out of his face.
But then—Cyrus slides a report onto the table.
"Your approval rating jumped six points overnight."
Fitz's eyes flicker to the paper despite himself.
Polls. Favorability metrics. Headlines.
A President in Mourning, A Nation United
Fitzgerald Grant Stands Strong—But Is It Enough?
Fitz clenches his jaw. "And that last part?"
Cyrus shrugs. "That's the problem, isn't it? The funeral helped, but it's not enough. The world doesn't just want a grieving husband, Fitz. They want a leader."
Fitz bristles, shaking his head."What do you think I've been trying to do, Cyrus?"
Cyrus leans in now, voice lower, sharper.
"Trying isn't winning."
Fitz's fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
"You're pushing yourself hard, I know that," Cyrus says, his tone shifting—a calculated blend of concern and manipulation. "But you have to keep going. You have to show them you're not just surviving—you're leading."
Fitz exhales sharply, his body aching in protest.
Cyrus sees it.
And twists the knife.
"Do you think Olivia Pope would love a weak man?"
Fitz's breath catches. His shoulders stiffen.
Cyrus smirks.
Because that's the hook.
And Fitz just took the bait.
Olivia knows something is wrong.
She's known since the funeral—since the way Fitz's body swayed, nearly gave out, only to be held upright by Gerry and herself.
But Fitz? He won't admit it.
And now, as she steps into his office, she can already tell what this is.
A fight waiting to happen.
He's standing at his desk, hands braced on either side, shoulders stiff. He doesn't look up right away, but she sees it—the slight tremor in his left hand, the way he blinks too hard, like his vision isn't quite clear.
And yet, his voice is steady.
"It's not enough."
Olivia crosses her arms."What's not enough?"
Fitz finally looks at her, and she sees it in his eyes.
The exhaustion. The frustration. The desperation to keep control.
"The funeral helped. But it's not enough." He straightens, trying to make himself seem stronger, more unshaken. "I need to do more. And so do you."
Olivia stares at him. "Fitz—"
"We need to hit back harder. We need to control the narrative. Sally is still circling, the media is still questioning me. We can't just sit back and wait for them to believe in me again—we have to make them believe."
His voice is rising, his energy too forceful, too much.
"You need to do more, Olivia."
Her eyes flash. "I am doing everything, Fitz. I have been holding this together since the moment you got shot."
"Then hold it tighter!" He snaps, running a hand through his hair—but she doesn't miss it.
The way his fingers twitch. The way he grips his temple for half a second, like the headache is pressing in.
His body is giving out.
And he's pretending it's not happening.
Olivia steps forward, lowering her voice. "You're pushing too hard."
Fitz laughs sharply. "That's rich, coming from you."
She exhales, her patience thread bare. "This isn't about me."
"It's always about you, Olivia."His voice softens, just slightly, but the accusation lingers. "You told me to be smart. To take small bites. And now I'm telling you—it's not enough."
A beat. A suffocating beat.
Olivia squares her shoulders."And what happens when your body can't keep up, Fitz?"
His jaw tightens. "Then I push harder."
It's reckless. Stupid. But so painfully, stubbornly Fitz.
Olivia shakes her head, stepping back. "Then you'll break."
Fitz doesn't answer.
Because he knows she's right.
Bu the can't afford to stop.
Not now.
Not when everything is on the line.
Fitz wakes up with fire in his veins.
Not determination.
Not resolve.
Pain.
The kind that wraps around his ribs and settles deep in his skull, pressing against his temple like a vice. His left hand tingles, not with its usual tremor but with a numbness that makes his stomach turn.
He blinks up at the ceiling, his breath shallow, uneven.
His body is finally turning against him.
A consequence of pushing too hard, too fast.
But stopping? Not an option.
With a slow, controlled breath, he sits up—too quickly.
The room tilts.
His vision fades at the edges, darkening.
For a horrifying moment, he thinks he might black out.
Then—a voice.
"Fitz?"
Olivia.
He doesn't remember falling back against the pillows, but when he blinks again, she's there, hovering over him, eyes sharp with concern.
"You're pale." Her voice is steady, but he hears the edge in it. The frustration beneath the calm.
He forces a smirk. "You always say that."
She doesn't bite.
Instead, she steps back, arms crossed. "How bad is it?"
Fitz swallows, pushing through the lingering dizziness. "I'm fine."
Olivia's expression doesn't change. "Liar."
His jaw clenches. "It's nothing I can't handle."
She exhales, shaking her head. "That's exactly the problem, Fitz. You think you can handle it. You think if you just push harder, it'll fix itself. But your body is telling you otherwise."
He doesn't answer.
Because what is there to say?
She's right.
And he hates it.
Olivia sits on the edge of the bed, watching him carefully.
"I get it." Her voice is softer now."You feel like you have to keep moving. That stopping means losing. But I won't let that happen."
Fitz exhales, looking at her now. "And what does that mean?"
"It means I have a plan."
His brows lift.
"You wanted more? Fine." She leans forward slightly. "But we do it my way."
Fitz tilts his head, skeptical. "And what exactly is your way?"
"Smaller, controlled moves." She straightens."You don't need one grand gesture. You need a series of intentional, impactful steps. Steps that don't push your body to the breaking point."
Fitz exhales sharply, rubbing his forehead. "So what's first?"
She stands now, grabbing her tablet from the desk. "Let's start with something simple. A sit-down interview. One-on-one. Controlled environment, controlled questions. You set the tone."
Fitz arches a brow. "Who?"
Olivia smirks. "James Novak."
His chest tightens. "That's not small."
"It's big enough to matter. Small enough to be manageable."She meets his gaze, challenging. "And it's your first step back."
A long pause.
Fitz's body still aches, but this—this feels like a move.
"Alright." His voice is low, but firm. "Let's do it."
Olivia nods.
And just like that—the next battle begins.
The lights are warm, almost suffocating.
Fitz sits across from James Novak, posture straight, hands folded in his lap. Controlled. Composed.
At least, that's the illusion he's holding on to.
The cameras are rolling.
America is watching.
And he can't afford to falter.
James offers a polite, professional smile. "Mr. President, first, let me say—it's good to see you."
Fitz nods, matching the tone. "Thank you, James. It's good to be here."
The first question is easy.
A soft pitch about the funeral, the nation's response, Mellie's legacy.
Fitz handles it well, steady, rehearsed. The grief in his voice is real, but measured.
Then—James shifts gears.
"Your recovery has been nothing short of remarkable. The public has seen you in brief glimpses, but many still have questions. Can you assure the American people that you are fully ready to resume office?"
The question is expected.
The answer should be, too.
"Absolutely." Fitz leans forward slightly, meeting James's gaze. "My doctors have cleared me, and I am prepared to lead this country with the same strength and dedication as before."
It's a good answer.
A safe one.
But then—his left hand twitches.
Barely.
A small, almost imperceptible tremor.
But James notices.
So does the camera.
Fitz exhales, shifts slightly—but the movement triggers a sharp pain in his side.
His vision dims for a second.
It's fast. Too fast. But for one horrifying beat, he isn't sure if he can recover.
James hesitates, watching him carefully. "Mr. President?"
The silence is too long.
Just a second, maybe two. But enough.
Fitz clenches his jaw. Push through.
He forces a small, controlled smile. "I'm fine, James. Please, continue."
The moment passes.
The interview moves forward.
But the damage is already done.
Breaking Down the Interview: Was That a Moment of Weakness?
Strength or Struggle? Analysts Weigh In on President Grant's First Public Test.
Did You See That? Social Media Reacts to Fitz's Subtle Stumble.
The narrative isn't spinning the way Olivia wanted.
Instead of reassurance, the public is left with more questions.
And Sally Langston is waiting.
The interview ends.
The moment the cameras shut off, Fitz exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders, forcing his body to cooperate.
James Novak offers him a respectful nod. "Thank you, Mr. President."
Fitz nods back. "James."
It's polite. Cordial. But Fitz doesn't miss the way James studies him, carefully, curiously.
He saw the moment of hesitation.
And so did everyone watching.
Olivia is already waiting in the wings, arms crossed, unreadable. She doesn't speak until they're alone, moving swiftly down the hall toward the residence.
"You hesitated."
Fitz keeps walking. "I recovered."
"They noticed."
"They always notice." His tone is clipped, unbothered.
It's a lie.
And Olivia knows it.
He should be furious, should be demanding to go back on air, should be planning his next public statement—but he isn't.
Because he felt it.
That flicker of weakness. The way his body fought him in real-time.
And now, he's pushing it down.
Olivia lets it go. For now.
Because there's a bigger problem.
They step into his office, and she turns to face him, shifting gears. "No more sit-downs for now. We need something smaller. Private. Off-camera."
Fitz narrows his eyes. "Like what?"
"Something you can do without the press tearing it apart. Something controlled, direct, but effective." She exhales, already thinking through the options. "Maybe a meeting with your Cabinet—closed doors, no media. Something that shows you're still in charge."
Fitz grits his teeth. "I don't need to prove I'm in charge, Olivia."
"That's not up to us anymore."
He doesn't argue.
Because they both know the truth.
And then—the phone rings.
Fitz reaches for it first, pressing it to his ear.
"Mr. President," a voice says. Tom. Secret Service. "You're going to want to turn on the news."
Fitz frowns, grabbing the remote. Olivia stiffens beside him as the television flickers to life.
And there she is.
Sally Langston.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing a crisis in leadership unlike any this country has ever seen. The American people deserve a Commander-in-Chief who is strong, who is present, who is fully capable of leading this great nation. And tonight, I ask you—did President Grant look strong? Did he look capable?"
Olivia's stomach drops.
Fitz stares at the screen, jaw tight.
Sally leans in, voice lower, lethal.
"I believe it is time for an independent medical review of our President. The country deserves the truth."
The screen goes black as Fitz clicks the remote.
A long silence.
Then—Fitz lets out a slow, sharp breath.
"Game on."
Olivia closes her eyes briefly.
Because she already knows.
Sally isn't backing down.
And neither can they.
The news cycle is relentless.
The morning after Fitz's interview, every major network is running the same footage on repeat.
The slight hesitation. The flicker of strain. The barely perceptible tremor in his left hand.
CNN: "Lingering Effects of the Assassination Attempt—Is President Grant Truly Ready?"
The Washington Post: "Strong Enough to Lead? Concerns Grow Over Grant's Fitness for Office."
Fox News: "Sally Langston Calls for Independent Medical Review—Is It Time?"
The public doubt is growing.
And Olivia knows they're losing control of the narrative.
Fitz grips the edge of the desk, staring at the blank television screen.
The interview is over. The damage is done.
The headlines are already rolling in, the analysis brutal.
Did You See That? Social Media Reacts to Fitz's Subtle Stumble.
Strength or Struggle? Analysts Weigh In on President Grant's First Public Test.
Fitz clenches his jaw.
"They saw it."
Olivia stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching him carefully. She doesn't try to soften it.
"Yes."
A muscle in his jaw ticks. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "So what now?"
Olivia studies him, reading the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion he won't admit to.
He's slipping.
And he knows it.
"I need to do more," Fitz mutters, mostly to himself. "I need to prove—"
"No," Olivia cuts in smoothly." You need to stop chasing. And start controlling."
Fitz lifts his gaze to hers, narrowing his eyes.
"How?"
She doesn't hesitate."Gun control."
That makes him turn. A flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, hesitation, calculation.
"Gun control." His voice is careful. Measured.
"The country just watched its sitting President nearly die from a gunshot wound," Olivia continues."They've seen the cost of gun violence firsthand. They're waiting for someone to take the lead."
Fitz exhales, his hands bracing against the desk. "It's a fight I won't win."
"Not if you approach it as just a fight." Olivia's voice is steady. "But if you make it about something more—about protecting families, about ensuring the safety of every child in this country—then it becomes bigger than politics. It becomes something they can't ignore."
Fitz's fingers tighten on the edge of the desk. He's quiet. Thinking.
Then—he nods.
"Alright." His voice is low, but certain. "Let's do it."
Olivia nods back.
And just like that—they have their next move.
Cyrus bursts into Olivia's office, eyes blazing, already mid-rant.
"Have you completely lost your damn mind?"
Olivia doesn't even flinch.
She knew this was coming.
"Good morning to you too, Cyrus."
"Don't start with me, Liv."He slams a folder onto her desk—polling numbers, party breakdowns, donor expectations. "This? This is political suicide."
Olivia leans back in her chair, unimpressed.
"Is it?"
Cyrus lets out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh, you mean the President of the United States—who was elected on a right-wing platform—suddenly deciding to take on gun control? Do you have any idea what this will do?"
"I know exactly what it will do."
"It will tank us, Olivia. We'll lose half the party, Congress will revolt, the donors will start jumping ship, and Sally will be standing there with open arms welcoming every single one of them."
Olivia stands now, stepping around her desk.
"And what do you suggest, Cyrus?"Her voice issharp, cutting."That we sit back, let the media rip Fitz apart, and do nothing?"
"I suggest we don't hand Sally the presidency on a silver platter!" Cyrus gestures wildly, his frustration boiling over. "You want to take on gun control? Fine! Do it in a second term, do it when we're secure! Not now—not when we're still fighting to keep his seat warm!"
Olivia crosses her arms. "This isn't just a political move, Cyrus."
"Everything is a political move, Olivia!"
She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "This is leadership. Fitz was shot. In office. A sitting President almost died, and you expect him to ignore it? You expect the country to ignore it?"
"I expect him to survive long enough to actually lead, which won't happen if he loses the party's backing!"
They stare each other down, neither one willing to break.
Then—Cyrus scoffs.
"Let me guess. You convinced him."
Olivia doesn't blink. "I advised him."
"Oh, please," he sneers, stepping closer."You wrapped it up in one of your poetic, world-saving monologues and now he thinks this is the hill he needs to die on. Meanwhile, I'm left trying to put out the fires you keep lighting."
Olivia's eyes flash. "No, Cyrus. This fire was already burning. I just stopped pretending we could ignore it."
Cyrus leans in, voice low, sharp.
"And when it burns the entire administration down, don't come running to me."
Olivia doesn't flinch.
"Watch me."
A beat.
Then, without another word, Cyrus storms out.
And Olivia?
She doesn't let herself breathe.
Because the battle hasn't even begun.
Fitz already knows what's coming.
Cyrus barely waits for the door to shut before launching into it, his voice low, controlled—but simmering with frustration.
"Mr. President, you cannot do this."
Fitz leans back in his chair, unfazed. "That's not your call, Cyrus."
Cyrus exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face."Fitz, listen to me. You are barely holding onto your presidency, you are fighting for political survival, and now you want to take on a fight that will destroy us?"
Fitz meets his gaze. "I want to take on a fight that matters."
"No, you want to take on a fight that will hand Sally Langston the White House! Fitz, do you understand what this will do? The party will turn on you. Congress will eat you alive. The donors will vanish. And the second they see an opening, the Cabinet will start weighing their options."
Fitz's jaw tightens, but he doesn't waver.
"Let them."
Cyrus lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, that's rich. And what exactly are you going to do when they move to push you out? Fight them with a heartfelt speech about morals?"
Fitz folds his hands together."I was shot, Cyrus." His voice is low, firm. "I nearly died. And how many more people die every day because no one in power has the guts to do something about it?"
"Oh, spare me the moral outrage!" Cyrus snaps. "You didn't run on this. You didn't campaign on it. This isn't why people voted for you, and it sure as hell isn't what's going to keep you in office!"
"Maybe not," Fitz concedes."But it's the right thing to do."
Cyrus gives him a long, exasperated look. "The right thing to do? And where did you get that idea? Let me guess—Olivia Pope?"
Fitz's expression hardens.
"She's right."
Cyrus throws up his hands. "Of course she is! Because when has Olivia Pope ever been wrong? Never, right? And yet, here you are, one bad headline away from losing everything, and she has you thinking this is the hill you need to die on."
Fitz pushes up from his chair, stepping forward."No one is telling me what to do, Cyrus. Not Olivia. Not you. This is my decision."
Cyrus studies him for a long, tense beat.
Then, slowly, he nods.
"Alright." His voice is quiet now, almost resigned. "If this is the move you want to make, I'll do my job. I'll find a way to make it work."
But there's something in his tone.
A warning.
Fitz watches as Cyrus turns and walks out.
And for the first time, Fitz wonders just how far his Chief of Staff is willing to go to stop him.
Breaking News: White House Preparing Sweeping Gun Control Legislation
Sally Langston Slams President Grant's 'Radical Anti-Second Amendment Agenda'
Divided Party: Can Grant Survive This Fight?
The headlines explode across every major network before Fitz has even touched a pen to paper.
And just like that—the war has begun.
Fitz is already standing when Olivia walks into the room.
The television screen flickers in front of him, Sally Langston's face stretched into mock concern, her voice laced with manufactured disappointment.
"It is a sad day, my friends, when the leader of the free world decides that stripping Americans of their God-given rights is the answer to political woes. Now, I don't know about you, but I, for one, believe that the Second Amendment is not up for negotiation."
Fitz grits his teeth, grabbing the remote and clicking the screen off.
Olivia doesn't say anything right away.
Because they both know what this is.
This isn't just a challenge. It's a power move.
And Fitz is already a step behind.
"How the hell did this get out?" he demands.
Olivia presses her lips together. "Sally."
"Of course it was Sally." Fitz exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "We haven't even drafted the damn bill yet."
"That's the point."Olivia crosses her arms, scanning his expression. "She's controlling the narrative before we even get a chance to shape it ourselves."
Fitz lets out a humorless laugh. "So she's got the party thinking I'm coming for their guns before I even put pen to paper."
Olivia nods.
And Fitz?
He turns to Cyrus.
Because Cyrus is too damn quiet.
"You knew."
Cyrus shrugs, stepping forward. "I knew something like this was coming."
"And you didn't think to warn me?"
"What good would it have done, Fitzgerald?" Cyrus spreads his arms, exasperated. "I told you this was political suicide. And now, before you even had a chance to sell it, Sally has already poisoned the well."
Fitz steps closer. "And what exactly are you suggesting, Cyrus?"
Cyrus meets his gaze, voice sharp.
"Drop it."
A beat.
A heavy, suffocating beat.
"No." Fitz's voice is firm, unwavering.
Cyrus exhales harshly. "Then, for God's sake, Fitz, you better be ready for a fight. Because Sally didn't just move first—she set the whole battlefield on fire."
Olivia's phone buzzes.
She pulls it out, eyes scanning the screen.
And just like that—it gets worse.
She looks up, meeting Fitz's gaze."The NRA just put out a statement condemning the administration."
Cyrus lets out a bitter laugh."Checkmate."
Fitz?
He just squares his shoulders.
"Like hell it is."
Fitz picks up the remote again, staring at the blacked-out television screen as if he can will it all away.
Sally had done exactly what Olivia feared she would.
And now?
The gun control fight had already been framed—and not by them.
He drags a hand down his face. "How the hell do we take this back?"
Olivia already has an answer.
"We do a speech."
Fitz lets out a sharp, humorless laugh."Oh, great. Another press conference where the sharks circle, picking apart every word I say? No, thanks."
Olivia shakes her head."Not live. Pre-recorded."
Fitz pauses.
She sees it in his expression—the wheels turning, the brief flash of understanding.
"A pre-recorded statement lets us control everything," she continues."We pick the message, the setting, the tone. No Q&A, no chance for the press to twist your words. And more importantly? We can do as many takes as we need."
Fitz's jaw tightens.
Because he knows what she's saying.
They need to prepare for his physical limitations.
The tremor. The exhaustion. The lingering effects that could turn one slight misstep into a media disaster.
"This gives you the upper hand, Fitz." Olivia steps closer. "We don't let Sally define this. You define it. You tell the country what this is before she does."
Cyrus scoffs.
"Oh, sure. Because a well-rehearsed, carefully edited speech will absolutely convince the American people that their President isn't falling apart at the seams."
Olivia's eyes flash. "It'll remind them why they elected him in the first place."
Fitz's gaze flickers between them.
Cyrus, who sees this as political suicide.
Olivia, who sees this as a fight worth having.
And him?
He has to choose.
A long, heavy beat.
Then—he nods.
"Let's do it."
Cyrus throws up his hands. "Fantastic. I'll start planning for the collapse of this administration."
But Olivia?
She's already moving.
Because now?
They're finally on the offensive.
The tension in the room is palpable.
Cyrus pours himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with the same calculated control he's always had. Olivia watches him, arms crossed, unwavering.
"You need to get on board, Cyrus."
He lets out a humorless chuckle. "Oh, I'm sorry, was I under the impression that I had a choice?"
Olivia steps forward."You do. You can either keep fighting me, or we can work together to protect Fitz."
Cyrus takes a slow sip, considering her words.
"We both want the same thing,"she presses."A strong, stable presidency. You may not like how I play the game, but I'm not your enemy, Cyrus."
He studies her, eyes sharp, calculating.
Then, he exhales, setting his glass down with a thud.
"Fine. Let's get this damn speech done."
The bathroom tiles are freezing beneath his hands.
Fitz squeezes his eyes shut, breath ragged, willing his stomach to settle. His head throbs, his body burning from the inside out.
He grips the counter and pulls himself up, only for his vision to darken at the edges. His knees buckle.
He barely catches himself against the sink.
For a long, horrifying moment, Fitz thinks he might black out.
For a long, horrifying moment, he thinks this is it.
That if he goes down now, he won't be getting back up.
His breath stutters. His pulse hammers too fast, his vision tilting at the edges. His whole body feels wrong—hot and cold at the same time, like his skin can't decide what it's supposed to be.
He needs to sit. To stop.
But stopping isn't an option.
Not when they're watching. Not when the wolves are circling.
He grits his teeth, locking his elbows, forcing himself upright.
Breathe. Steady. Get through it.
No one can know.
He grips the edge of the sink harder, forcing his body into submission.
And when he finally steps out of the bathroom, he is the President again.
The cameras are set. The lighting is precisely adjusted.The script is ready.
And Fitz?
He's on take six.
"The safety of our citizens is—"
His voice falters.
His left hand twitches.
He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to reset, to steady.
"Cut," Olivia calls softly.
Fitz lets out a sharp breath, rubbing his forehead.
"Again."
The crew resets.
Take seven.
"The safety of our citizens should never be a partisan issue—"
A flash of pain tightens his expression.
The words blur for half a second.
"Cut."
Fitz shakes his head, frustration mounting. "I can do this."
Cyrus leans in, voice low. "Then do it, Mr. President."
Take eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Each one is closer, but not perfect.
Each one takes more out of him.
Finally—Olivia steps forward.
She doesn't say anything at first, just places a hand over his shaking left one.
A silent reminder: You are not alone.
Fitz exhales, closes his eyes for a beat.
Then—Take eleven.
And this time?
It's the one.
The speech is done.
The cameras are off. The crew has packed up. The weight of it should feel like relief.
But Olivia sees the toll it took.
Fitz is still at the desk, gripping the edges, his body stiff. His face is set in that familiar expression—the one that says he's trying to power through when he's already at his limit.
She steps forward.
"Fitz."
He doesn't look up.
"It's done. You did your part."
He exhales, slow and sharp. "Not yet."
"Yes, it is." She moves closer, voice softer but firm."The speech is recorded. We control the message now. The next moves are mine to make, not yours."
His jaw tightens. "Olivia—"
"No."She cuts him off before he can argue. "You need to rest. Let me handle the rest."
Fitz finally lifts his gaze to her.
There's frustration there, but also something else.
Something more fragile.
"I can't just stop, Liv."
She kneels in front of him, meeting him at eye level.
"I know," she murmurs. "But if you don't, your body will make the choice for you. And when that happens, you won't have control over anything."
His throat works, but he doesn't argue.
Because they both know she's right.
"Go." Her voice softens, but her eyes stay locked on his."Sleep. I've got this."
A long beat.
Then, finally, Fitz nods.
Not because he wants to.
But because he trusts her.
And that?
That's enough.
For now.
The residence is quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Karen sits curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, her phone in her hands. She's scrolling through news updates, through headlines, through clips of the interview, the funeral, the speech.
Analyzing. Searching.
Because something isn't right.
"Stop watching that."
She flinches slightly, but doesn't look up. Gerry is standing near the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable—but she knows him too well.
He's worried too.
Karen doesn't put the phone down. Instead, she tilts the screen away from him, just enough to be stubborn.
"Did you see him during the speech?"
Gerry exhales sharply, stepping forward. "Yeah."
Karen presses her lips together, staring at the screen. Her thumb hovers over the video, like she's about to play it again.
"He looks—"
"Tired," Gerry finishes, dropping onto the couch beside her.
Karen nods, her grip tightening around her phone.
"Do you think he's really okay?" she asks, voice quieter now.
Gerry hesitates.
Because he doesn't know.
"He wouldn't tell us if he wasn't," Gerry mutters.
Karen scoffs, sharp and quick. "Yeah. That's the problem."
A beat.
She drops the phone onto the couch beside her, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"Do you ever think about what would've happened if he didn't wake up?"
Gerry stiffens.
Because he does. All the time.
"…Yeah," he admits. "I do."
Karen stares at the screen again.
Then, her voice drops lower, like she doesn't want to say it out loud.
"Do you think he should be doing all of this? The speeches, the meetings… all of it?"
Gerry doesn't answer right away.
He wants to believe their dad is strong enough.
He wants to believe he's going to be okay.
But after everything that's happened…
"I don't know," Gerry admits. "But I think he thinks he has to."
Karen's jaw tightens.
She hugs her arms tighter around herself.
"I just don't want to lose him too," Karen whispers, her grip tightening on her phone.
Gerry doesn't say anything at first, but his jaw flexes, like he feels the same weight pressing on his chest.
Karen lets out a shaky breath—so quiet it barely makes a sound—but Gerry feels the tremor in her fingers before she yanks her hand away. She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees up, curling into herself, like she's trying to make herself smaller.
A long, heavy beat.
Then, suddenly, Karen shoves her phone at him, the screen lighting up with news clips. "Did you see what they're saying about the interview?" Her voice is too sharp, too quick—a clear deflection, like if she focuses on something else, she won't have to feel what's really happening.
Gerry exhales through his nose. He knows what she's doing. He doesn't push.
But still—he reaches over, squeezing her hand once before letting go.
"We need to talk."
Olivia looks up.
Karen and Gerry stand in the middle of her office, shoulders squared, eyes hard.
This isn't a casual visit.
This is an intervention.
Olivia straightens, smoothing her jacket. "I assume this isn't a social call."
Gerry doesn't waste time. "How bad is it?"
Olivia's mask stays firmly in place. "What are you talking about?"
Karen crosses her arms tighter. "Dad."
Olivia hesitates—a second too long.
Karen catches it.
"We saw the interview. We saw the speech. He's struggling, Olivia. And you know it."
Gerry steps closer, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "He won't tell us the truth. So we're asking you."
Olivia exhales slowly.
This is not a conversation she was prepared for.
But they aren't giving her a choice.
"Your father is recovering," she says carefully. "And he's doing everything he can to—"
"Stop." Karen's voice cuts through the room like a knife.
She doesn't yell.
She doesn't cry.
But her hands are shaking slightly as she clenches them at her sides.
"Don't spin us, Olivia. We're not reporters. We're his kids."
A long, heavy silence.
Olivia looks between them.
She could lie. She could tell them what they want to hear.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she gives them the only truth she can.
"He's trying."
Karen's brows knit together. "That's not an answer."
Olivia exhales. "It's the only one I can give you."
Karen stares at her.
And for the first time—she sees it.
The exhaustion. The weight.
Olivia Pope is barely holding it together.
New Message: Harrison Wright
"What's the play for Hollis?"
Oliviareads the text once, then again.
Her team is waiting.
They're expectingdirection. Answers. A plan.
And yet—she hasn't made a move.
Not because she doesn't care.
Not because Huck doesn't matter.
But because Fitz has beenher focus.
And they've noticed.
She exhales,fingers hovering over her screen.
Before she can respond, a voice pulls her back.
"Hey, Dad?"
She pauses, turning slightly.
Gerry stands in the doorway of Fitz's private room, his posture uncertain but determined.
Fitz looks up from where he's sitting, surprised but pleased.
"Hey, kid." His voice is warm but tired.
Gerry hesitates, then steps inside,closing the door behind him.
Olivia watches for a beat, then quietly slips away.
Because this is their moment.
Fitz studies his son carefully.
There's something different about Gerry—something heavier.
Like the weight of the last few weeks has settled into his bones, making him seem older than fourteen.
Gerry doesn't sit right away. He just…stands there.
Like he's figuring out where to begin.
"So…" Gerry finally says."You're really okay?"
Fitz exhales.
"I'm trying."
Gerry nods slowly.
Then, in a voice quieter than before:
"You don't have to pretend with me, Dad."
Fitz's breath catches.
Because Gerry knows.
Knows that Fitz isn't okay.
Knows that Fitz is trying too hard to make everyone believe that he is.
"I'm getting stronger every day," Fitz says carefully. "But it's not easy."
Gerry finally moves—sinking into the chair beside him.
"It's okay if it's not easy," he mutters.
Fitzstudies his son.
Then—he nods.
"I know."
A quiet beat.
Then—Gerry speaks again.
"We were scared." His voice issofter now, but heavy with meaning. "Karen and I. We thought…" He stops, shakes his head."I didn't know if you were going to wake up."
Fitz's chest tightens.
Becausehe doesn't know what to say to that.
What could he say?
"I'm sorry," he murmurs.
Gerry nods, like he already knew that.
"Just… don't push too hard, okay?"
Fitz exhales,offering a small, tired smile.
"I'll try."
Gerry nods again.
And for the first time in weeks,the weight between them feels a little lighter.
New Message: Harrison Wright
"Liv, what's the plan? We need to move on Hollis."
Olivia closes her eyes briefly.
Because they're right.
She needs to move.
And she needs todo it now.
Olivia stares at her phone.
Harrison's message still lingers on the screen, waiting—demanding—a response.
"Liv, what's the plan? We need to move on Hollis."
She should type something.
A directive. A strategy.
But she doesn't.
Because something isn't sitting right.
This isn't just about Huck anymore.
Not if every road leads back to Defiance.
Not if Hollis had a hand in what happened to Fitz.
Not if this all started the moment Fitz refused to play his game.
Her stomach tightens.
She could handle this herself.
Or—she could bring Cyrus in.
He would hate it.
He would rail against it, tell her she was chasing ghosts, tell her to focus on the battles in front of them.
But if she's right—if Hollis Doyle is the missing piece—then Cyrus needs to know.
Doesn't he?
Her thumb hovers over the screen.
A decision needs to be made.
But for the first time in a long time, Olivia Pope doesn't know what to do.
Cyrus is already drinking when Olivia walks in.
The whiskey bottle sits half-poured on his desk, a crystal glass in his hand. He doesn't look up at first—just takes a slow sip before sighing.
"Tell me, Liv, is this about the impending implosion of this administration, or do you have a new catastrophe for me to juggle?"
Olivia closes the door.
"Hollis."
Cyrus finally looks at her.His expression sharpens—just slightly. But he doesn't react.
"What about him?"
Olivia moves forward, leaning against the desk.
"I think everything ties back to him—the shooting, Huck being framed, Fitz refusing to give him what he wanted on oil drilling."
Cyrus arches a brow.
"Let me guess, you have proof?"
She doesn't blink."I have a starting point."
Cyrus leans back, watching her. "Liv, do you hear yourself? You are connecting dots without a damn pencil. You're grasping at ghosts."
Olivia's jaw tightens."You think it's a coincidence? Fitz denies Hollis the drilling contracts and suddenly he's in the crosshairs?
"I think you're desperate for a new war when we haven't won the one in front of us."
Olivia inhales sharply, holding her ground.
"If I'm right, Cyrus, this isn't just about oil. It's about power. It's about a man who thinks he can buy a presidency—and take out anyone who stands in his way."
Cyrus watches her carefully.
He doesn't dismiss it outright.
But he doesn't commit either.
"You have smoke, Liv. You don't have fire."
Olivia leans in, voice lower now.
"Then let's start fanning the flames."
A long, heavy silence.
Then—Cyrus smirks.
"You know, I actually missed this side of you."
Olivia doesn't smile.
"Are you in or not?"
Cyrus downs the rest of his drink, setting the glass down with a sharp clink.
"I'm not convinced, but I'll bite. Let's see if there's a trail to follow."
Olivia nods once.
It's not a victory.
But it's enough.
For now.
The fire casts flickering shadows across the walls, the soft glow making the space feel smaller, more intimate.
But Fitz?
He feels like he's drowning in it.
The silence.
The weight of everything he's lost.
The heaviness of a future he never planned for.
Mellie is gone.
His presidency is hanging by a thread.
And his body? Failing him.
He's a man barely holding it together.
A man on the edge of breaking.
And when Olivia steps into the room, he doesn't think—he just moves.
She barely has time to say his name before he's reaching for her.
A hand at her waist, the other sliding up to the curve of her neck.
It isn't slow. It isn't careful.
It's desperate.
He pulls her in, captures her mouth with his, not asking—taking.
Because he needs to feel something.
Something that isn't grief.
Something that isn't failure.
Something that isn't the ache in his chest that won't go away.
Olivia freezes for half a second.
Because she knows what this is.
This isn't about them.
This is about pain.
This is about a man who has lost too much, trying to anchor himself to the only thing that's ever felt real.
And she can't let him do this.
She presses her hands to his chest, pushing back—not harshly, but enough.
"No."
Fitz stills.
His breath is uneven, his fingers lingering at her hip like he doesn't want to let go.
"Fitz," she murmurs, her voice steady but soft.
He doesn't look at her at first.
Because he knows what she's going to say.
Because he knows she's right.
When he finally does, his eyes are glassy, raw, filled with something he doesn't have words for.
"I know it hurts." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I know you don't know how to carry it. But this?" She exhales."This isn't how you bury pain, Fitz."
His breath shudders. He swallows hard, his fingers twitching like they want to hold onto something—but there's nothing there.
"I don't know how," he whispers.
Olivia lifts a hand, runs her thumb along his jaw, grounding him.
"You will."
Fitz searches her face.
Maybe for a crack. A hesitation. A flicker of something that says she wants this too.
But it isn't there.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. His hands curl into loose fists at his sides before he exhales sharply, shaking his head just once.
Then—so quiet it's almost an after thought—
"You always know what's best, don't you?"
Olivia stills.
Fitz steps back, putting space between them, his movements careful, deliberate.
Then—he nods.
Not because he wants to.
But because he can feel the door closing.
Olivia steps back too, her fingers lingering for a second before she lets go completely.
Fitz doesn't move.
Just stands there, his pulse still racing, his lips still tingling from the ghost of her touch.
And then—
Cyrus's voice echoes in the back of his mind.
"Do you think Olivia Pope would love a weak man?"
His jaw clenches.
His fists tighten.
And in that moment?
Fitz makes a silent promise to himself.
Weakness isn't an option.
Not now.
Not ever.