It's half past eleven and just starting to rain by the time she finally pulls into her driveway. She takes in the sounds of the motorcade powering down, the hum of engines replaced by a crescendo of water on tile and pavement.
She sits in the darkness, just for a minute, watches as droplets blur the windshield and transform the familiar surroundings into glistening pinpricks of yellow and brown.
Hers is not the only house on the street with windows still illuminated, but it's one of few. She wonders briefly how many residents have just had their nights interrupted by her grand arrival.
On nights like these, she almost wishes her biggest problems were unruly neighbors, and not neighboring countries on the verge of war. She envies those people, who, when things go wrong at work, get to shrug and go home at five saying, "It's not the end of the world." And god, it must be nice, she thinks, to read the newspaper headlines with detached curiosity. To move on with life, certain that someone, somewhere, would make sure things work out. On nights like these, she craves normal.
And yet, she'd had a normal life once. Briefly. That tenure as professor and horse owner feels like a lifetime ago. She'll say she was happy then, and it's not a lie. She genuinely enjoyed teaching and riding, delighted in watching her children grow into distinct individuals. But she never could read the newspaper headlines without wondering what she was missing. And then he'd asked and, hell, who could turn down a job like this?
She contemplates as she takes a detour into the kitchen, notes the blue post-it on the fridge that discloses the location of the left-over chicken parm and exhibits a little hand-drawn heart. Her own dinner had consisted of Chinese take-out consumed unceremoniously while meeting with her staff. She removes the post-it, tucks it in her pants pocket. She can't quite bring herself to throw it away.
She reaches the top of the stairs, observes the light and faint tapping of keys emanating from Jason's room. The doorway to her own room is similarly lit, and she finds Henry in bed reading. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the well-worn paperback in his hands, his day can't have been much better than hers. He looks up at her, searches, smiles a little. She can't quite tell whether the expression is muted with understanding or fatigue, but at the moment she's too tired to ponder.
Tomorrow morning, she'll be Secretary McCord again: trying desperately to hold together the fraying edges of the free world. But right now, nestled in her husband's arms, she closes her eyes and listens to the rain.
A/N: So this is my first Madam Secretary fic, and my first attempt at any fiction in quite a while. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.