… *taps mic* Is this thing still on? Uh, hi. It's been over a year. I am woefully behind on S5. I fell into the deep end with some pretty ice dancers, which is fun. I missed these two dorks though, so here goes nothing. Set shortly after Henry's dad dies and they're back in DC.
Based on this prompt by lilacmermaid on Tumblr: The piano in the McCord's living room is Henry's. He hasn't been able to bear putting his hands on it in years, but Elizabeth refuses to get rid of it, and it brings her to tears when she comes home one day to find him playing.
Title is "Angela" by the Lumineers.
Please let me know what you think (but be gentle, I'm rusty and this is not beta'd). xx
She's already wrestling with her coat and shoes by the time the front door closes behind her with a gentle click, desperate to step out of her heels and drop her blazer in the general vicinity of the bench in the entryway. Her briefcase hits the ground with a thud and her heels follow in a clatter, one by one, as she toes them off with practised speed.
A relieved sigh follows, then the quiet rustling of fabric as her blazer flutters to the floor. She misses the bench, she notices, but she can't quite bring herself to care.
It's late afternoon, and she normally wouldn't be home but they've just come off two all-nighters and it's Friday and they're all exhausted, and somewhere, something's gotta give.
Daisy nearly whooped when she told them they should all just pack up and rest, Matt actually pumped his fist and based on the look on Nadine's face, Elizabeth is pretty confident in her guess that her chief of staff will be spending tonight with a large glass of wine.
She deserves it. (They all do.)
It's only when she's stripped down to her blouse and slacks that she registers the melody coming from the living room.
It's gentle at first, almost hesitant, fluttering a bit at the edges, like a foal taking its first steps in the hay. Elizabeth stops dead in her tracks; her breath catches in her throat and she can feel the hot press of tears behind her eyelids, threatening to fall. Slowly, the notes gain urgency, surety and speed, swelling into a crescendo before mellowing out again. She recognizes the music immediately, although she hasn't heard it like this in years.
She pads forward out of the entryway, along the hall and over to the base of the staircase, gripping the smooth wood of the banister to steady herself.
Henry's back is to her, hunched slightly as he sways gently to the music. His fingers splay across the keys and dance up and down the scales, wavering every so often but gaining confidence as he goes on. It's softer now, controlled, and she senses he's losing himself in it, giving over to the feeling of it, of creating something visceral. She thinks that if she were to walk over and look at him, his eyes would be closed, lips upturned slightly at the corners, all worry washed from his face.
She can't bear to move, hand still clutching the banister like a vice, while her husband sits at their piano and plays.
It's not perfect, by any means, but it's so beautiful that she finds herself in tears.
—
She remembers the day they got the grand piano like it was yesterday. Henry had gotten approved for tenure two months prior; she was gaining standing as an adjunct, and it seemed like finally, Baghdad and all the memories associated with it were firmly in the past.
Most nights, after Henry cooked dinner and Elizabeth helped Stevie with her math homework, they would end up in the living room of their new house, still readjusting to the new sense of calm. Stevie would be reading, Elizabeth would be with Jason, and Alison loved playing with blocks on the soft carpet by the sofa.
In the corner of the room, Henry would be sat at the old upright he'd had since college, sheet music propped up in front of him. Some nights, he'd play old favourites, other times, he'd improvise, sometimes deliberately playing something silly to make Stevie laugh.
The most special nights, though, were when the kids were all in bed, fast asleep. Henry would lose himself in the music and she'd sit and listen until she noticed the clock beginning to creep toward midnight. She'd head over and stop him with a kiss to the cheek and a hug from behind, and he'd close the lid with the gentlest of clicks before taking her hand and following her up the staircase.
The first night they had the grand piano and the old upright was taken away for donation, Elizabeth and the kids gathered on the sofa to hear him play.
Nocturnes by Chopin followed Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue tested the register. Stevie clapped in delight and Alison babbled. Jason fell asleep on Elizabeth's chest and Henry's eyes slipped shut as melody after melody echoed through the room.
—
Elizabeth manages to stand there for a few minutes undetected, letting the music wash over her. Eventually, he senses her presence somehow, because the music stops and his back straightens. She holds her breath as he turns around on the bench, and tries to wipe the tears from the corners of her eyes.
She sees them in his too.
"Hey," he says, and his voice cracks a little in the middle, the word uncertain and soft. He looks sheepish, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be, and it breaks her heart to see him so small.
"Hi." It comes out watery and hoarse, and she fights to maintain her composure as she lets go of the banister and walks toward him. "You're home early," she says, because she needs to say something, and that seems as good a place as any to start.
"Mhm." He shrugs. "You are too."
Elizabeth lets out a dry laugh. "Too many all-nighters in a row."
She takes the last step toward the piano bench and holds out a hand. Henry takes it between his, running his fingers over her knuckles and the cool metal of her rings. He bends down to press a kiss to the back of her hand before clearing his throat. He looks up and shrugs a shoulder.
The corners of Elizabeth's mouth quirk upward as she breaks into a watery smile. She lowers herself onto the piano bench so she's perched half on it, half on Henry's lap. He wraps his arms around her waist and nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck. "Babe," she starts, voice barely above a whisper. "Since when have you been playing again?"
—
On Elizabeth's third date with Henry, he took her to a tiny Italian place in Charlottesville where she swore they made the best bolognese and tiramisu. They split a bottle of red wine, which he ordered, and she felt terribly adult when he insisted on paying the whole cheque.
They walked back to her dorm after, her arm linked through his elbow, her head resting on his shoulder. Everything felt warm and just a little bit fuzzy 'round the edges and she thought, right then and there, that it was the best date she'd ever been on.
He kissed her under a tree on the grounds, with the stars twinkling above and a nearby streetlight drenching them in a soft yellow glow.
His lips tasted like coffee and wine, and when he wrapped her in his arms, he smelled like peppermint and spice. When they broke apart for air, his eyes were glittering and her cheeks were flushed and she swore she would do anything to put the look of awe that took up residence on his face back there again as often as she possibly could.
Hand-in-hand, they headed back to her dorm, walking along the well-worn paths and enjoying the warm breeze. One of the windows of the music building was open that night, and a lone pianist sat inside the room, playing scales with increasing vigour.
Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, peeking inside as he transitioned over to a longer piece and gave himself away to the melody. "I've always wished I could do that," she'd said, and Henry had perked up beside her.
"Do you play an instrument?" he'd asked.
"No," she'd said, on a sigh. "You?"
—
Henry clears his throat. "I was looking for something in the basement earlier, and I found the old sheet music in a box. The ones she taught me with."
She nods, remembers filing it all away neatly when they moved to Georgetown, even though Henry insisted it could stay behind. No, she'd said, because the piano was coming too and it wouldn't be right to take one and not the other. He'd protested that as well, since an unplayed piano would surely just take up space and the last person to open it had been Alison, three years ago.
But Elizabeth had the movers wrap it up anyway, made sure it was protected for the drive, and then, after they set it up in the new empty house with far too many rooms and far too many alarms, she'd called around to find the best piano tuner in the city and have it looked at.
Henry had come home from Georgetown just as he was leaving, and she remembers her husband shaking his head and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She knew he thought it was all ludicrous and a waste of money and time; she, in turn, was well aware of why the instrument sat untouched in their living room for years, gathering dust.
And still, she knew that eventually, he'd play it again.
Now, wrapped up in him on the piano bench, she smiles to herself. "It was beautiful."
Henry laughs, raw and cracked. "I made so many mistakes."
"And?"
"She would have made me do all those scales five times over, you know. Until they were right."
Now it's Elizabeth's turn to chuckle. "Yeah, she would. But she probably would've given you a bit of a break, considering how long it's been."
"Maybe," he says, shaking his head. "Six years."
—
Pittsburgh had been hard. It's hard enough to have your parent die, this she knows from far too much experience, but at least when she went through it, she hadn't had to deal with Maureen or the issue of keeping up appearances.
She did what she could, helped around the house, went on walks with Henry, tried to make sense of it all for the kids. She let "Queen Elizabeth" roll off her like water on a pane of glass, bit her lip and took a step backward, beside Henry, to squeeze his hand and promise to never let go.
She straightened his tie on the day of his father's funeral, slipped her hands under the lapels of his shirt and pressed a kiss to his lips. I'm here and I love you and I know how this feels, she had said, wordlessly.
Thank you, I love you, he had kissed back in return.
She'd always found it remarkable how much of a time capsule his childhood home was. The new TV and sewing machine in Henry's old bedroom might be up there with the most drastic changes the house had seen since she first stepped foot in it, all those years ago, half-hidden behind her then-boyfriend. His mother had been the first to welcome her in, to wrap her in a tight hug and radiate warmth and love like she hadn't felt in so long.
His mother had also been the one to add the picture of her and Henry to the mantle once they moved in together. Elizabeth saw it the first time when they spent Christmas at the McCords' and his mother asked Henry to play something on the piano on Christmas morning.
Maureen had scoffed, Patrick had rolled his eyes, and Henry had blushed, but he did as told. Carol of the Bells, Silent Night. His mother watched from the corner of the room, hands clasped together, a broad smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. And when Henry was done, she told him how beautiful it sounded, but that halfway into one measure, he'd played an F sharp flat.
—
"Did you know that I still haven't had another strawberry milkshake?" she asks him, as she traces circles up and down his shoulder blade. "Not a single one."
"Hmm," he murmurs.
"I had the last one at the one drive through my dad would take me to after school when I got a good grade on a test. It was a week before…"
She leaves it unspoken, hanging in the silence between them because, after twenty-odd years, some things don't need to be said aloud.
"I mean, it's stupid when you think about it," she says, trailing off. "I've had plenty of vanilla milkshakes and strawberry ice cream, and it was my favourite kind, you know? I'd get them every time. But somehow, I just can't do it."
"It's not stupid," he says immediately, face tense, protective, caring beyond belief. "Nothing about grief is stupid, babe. It works differently for everyone."
She can't help but let out a little chuckle then, as realization dawns on his face. He bends forward so their noses are almost brushing, just a hair's breadth apart, and shakes his head in disbelief. Henry captures her lips with his, languid and slow, and she smiles into the kiss. When he breaks away, he brushes a tendril of hair from her face.
"Has anyone ever told you you're infuriating sometimes?"
Elizabeth laughs. "Only when I'm right."
"Well, Elizabeth McCord, you are infuriating. And also right. And I love you."
"I love you too."
He shifts on the piano bench so she can sit next to him, properly now, and she rests her head on his shoulder.
"I like to think," he says, slowly, like he's weighing out the words on his tongue, "that at least, they're in the same place now. If there's a place like that out there. Because, for all that he was and never could be, he made her smile. And she made him frown less."
—
Six years ago, Elizabeth and Tom had gone on a coffee run in the hospital in Pittsburgh. It felt like the only thing they could do, and so they walked the halls, arms laden with hot beverages, trying their best not to spill. Everyone was looking to her for guidance, for a handbook for the unspeakable, for a roadmap of what was supposed to happen next.
Elizabeth had no answers, but wrapped Erin in a hug all the same. She squeezed Shane's shoulder, and brought Maureen coffee, and was selfishly grateful that her father never had to go through what Patrick was about to have to endure. She kept the kids and their cousins entertained, read books and sent them to the play area with the hospital clown.
She held Henry at night when he cursed God in every language he knew, and didn't stray from his side during the day.
Pancreatic cancer, stage four. The doctors didn't sugarcoat it when they made the call a few weeks prior. She moved into the hospital shortly thereafter, bringing with her knitting needles and wool, her Bible and her favourite books. And then, after the family priest had come in and given last rites, all the McCords moved in too.
Elizabeth and Tom stopped in their tracks when they heard the music from the common room in Henry's mother's hospital wing. Tom pushed the doors open gently, and there she was. Henry's mom, in her hospital bed next to the piano. He was playing Moonlight Sonata, and her eyes were closed, a small smile spread across her lips.
Henry caught her eyes and she could see he was fighting tears. She was too.
"She wanted to hear it one last time," Erin whispered, walking up to them to help pass out the coffees. "It's always been her favourite."
—
"Will you play a little more?" she asks, hesitant, and presses a kiss to his cheek. She doesn't want to push him too far.
Henry nods. "Yeah, yeah I think so."
He starts off slow, getting a feel for the keys again, gently finding his footing as he eases into a familiar tune. His mother's favourite. Elizabeth stays perched on the bench next to him, any tiredness from earlier forgotten as she watches her husband play.