A/N: Sorry about the delay in the story. Sometimes writers block and work will do that to you. Hope you enjoy.
July 5, 2010
"No, I'm not doing it."
He laid in bed, his Navy shirt and sweatpants loose on his body, and Olivia found herself trying not to throttle him for being so stubborn. Cyrus had told her that he would fight it but it still frustrated her that this was another thing she had to battle him on. She didn't want to fight but she wasn't going to let his PTSD hinder him any more than what it already had.
"You need help, Fitz. You might not want to admit it because of your pride but a therapist is nothing to be ashamed of."
"I don't need one." His jaw tightened as if this was the end of the discussion. If he thought that…then he had another thing coming.
"Here are the facts." Olivia pressed, her arms crossing over her chest. "Last night you had a panic attack in front of most of the California Republican Party because fireworks went off in your vicinity. Cyrus has been covering for you for almost a month and is this close to impairing his own health to make sure that you covered with your national security meetings, your national briefings, and battles in congress in your stead. You have a baby on the way…"
"That's not mine." Fitz tilted his head to the side, his eyes the color of a clean river stone, waiting for her to continue.
"It doesn't matter if it is yours or not. That's beside the point. You are going to be a father again soon in the eyes of the American public and you have two other children who have to…"
"Don't. you. dare." Fitz sneered, his white teeth showing. "Don't use my kids to guilt trip me into seeing a shrink I don't need to see."
"It is your responsibility, not only as a father but as a President, to be at your best!" Olivia took in a deep breath. "You are not at your best."
"I don't need somebody in my head. That's for people who can't handle their shit. I can handle my shit." Fitz answered, his jaw tightened.
"That sounds like your father talking. Not Fitz."
"What if it is my father? Is that so bad? The man went through Vietnam for Christ's sake. He was decorated."
"And look at how he treated you. How he still treats you."
"Oh and you're here to right the wrongs, is that it?" Fitz gave a bitter smile. "Fix poor broken Fitz who came from a bad home. Who was never loved as a child and needs a wet nurse to fix the boo boos."
"You know what? Fine." Olivia tossed her hands up and shook her head. "You deal with yourself then."
Olivia walked out the room and didn't turn back even after he called her name.
When she returned to the hotel suite in which she and her associates stayed no one mentioned she had been gone all night but she could feel the judgment in their eyes.
"What's the news?"
"Carlton Grey, CEO of Brown Electronics, had a meeting with Fitzgerald Grant Jr today." Stephen took a sip of his coffee and the aroma from the other coffees around the room filled the air.
Olivia picked up a tea that was in the carton that the team brought for her just in case she decided to show back up and cursed both Fitzgerald's for being pig headed. She had told BJ that he was not to make any contact with anyone from the company without her present.
"I need for you to get Carlton Grey on the phone. We need to have a serious discussion."
Wyatt Greenville didn't know what to think when his phone had wrung at 3:30am, waking himself, his wife, and small grandchild in bed with him. It was after that he had taken the strangest, and possibly, most exhilarating experience of his life. There were tons of confidentiality agreements, nondisclosure forms, and an interview with several severe looking secret service agents who asked questions about his background and his treatment of PSTD as a leading psychiatrist in the field. He had then been ushered away, all of his bags packed, into a non-descript limo where a physician, named Dr. Bowers, briefed him on the condition of his newest client.
The President of the United States.
Dr. Bowers, during his military experience, had counseled and helped many high ranking officials but never the President of the United States and even on the plane to the Presidential Ranch he was unsure of his footing when it came to this man. He had heard, along with the rest of America, about his recovery efforts from his assassination attempt but, like the rest of America, assumed he was healing and becoming better.
But knowing what I know about traumatic events I should have known better.
They had put him up in a small beach house in Santa Barbara and then loaded him up for the journey to the ranch. The military presence was bigger than he had ever seen as well as the Secret Service outside of the gate but inside the actual ranch was peaceful. Wyatt was once again caught by surprised when they lead him not into the big mansion but to a smaller house in the woods. There a rather anxious man was there to greet him by the door.
"Cyrus Beene." He shook his hand gruffly.
"He's inside. He's moody. Help him."
Both men walked inside and then to the back of the house where the bedroom sat. The president looked out the patio window and then at both men wearily.
"Mr. President, this is Wyatt Greenville…"
"A shrink." The President's features dimmed and then flushed red. "I told you…"
"He's here to help, sir. He's been given a full background check. Former military. Excellent credentials."
"I want him to leave."
The president turned his head back to the patio and Wyatt observed him carefully. Took in his unshaven appearance, his arm injury, his leg. The vibrant man he saw on television was not the man he saw in that bed.
"He's not leaving, sir. Respectfully you need to talk to someone."
Another detail noted in his mind.
"She left. Remember. You drove her away."
The president was silent at that.
"I'll be back, Mr. President."
Cyrus Beene left him in the room and a small nervousness snaked up Wyatt's spine. It was different being in front of the President of the United States. But the nervousness only lasted a short while. He may be President but he needed just as much help as any other man.
Wyatt took a seat on one of the chairs at the side of the room and sat in silence with him. It was forty minutes before the president said anything.
"You can leave. Whatever they paid you to come here, whatever expenses, I can reimburse you."
"Is that what you want?"
The president turned his head to look at him, his face in a quizzical expression.
"You aren't going to fight me?"
"Why would I? You seem as if you know what you want."
The president sat up, his blue grey eyes unbelieving. "What's the game?"
"No game, Mr. President. I don't deal with clients who feel like they don't need help. Do you feel as if you need help?"
The president contemplated for a moment, his brow lowered and his mouth a tight line. He was a handsome man, a man of strength, Wyatt noted. But there was a hint of fragility there. A hint of pain. The president looked up at him in confusion.
"I don't know." He answered honestly in the setting sun.
It was a start, thought Wyatt.