Strong content warning for sexual assault (beyond what is canonically shown in 3x15), please don't read if you think you might be triggered.

Honestly I never had plans on publishing this, I just needed to get it out of my head, but here we are.

I'm rating this M for content and thematic reasons, not for fun sexy-times reasons. I'd rather less people see this than somebody who might be triggered see it.

Split into two chapters for readability.

Oh and probably only other hyper-detailed people like me will notice, but I feel the need to say that I'm aware that she actually puts her coat down on a chair in Andrada's office and not a couch, but for the sake of this story it's a couch.

…..

It's been the longest few days trying to hold herself together, to keep everything else separated so she didn't slip and say the wrong thing. When Andrada had found her on the portico tonight she had wanted to scream, only a constant reminder to herself that several agents were in direct view kept her calm.

Elizabeth dragged herself home an hour ago planning to work herself into exhaustion, but all she's accomplished so far is changing into her softest pajamas and staring at the wall.

She sighs, switches off her lamp and curls up on her side, pulling the covers up to her chin. Closing her eyes she desperately hopes for a dreamless sleep. She hears Henry come in, she listens as he brushes his teeth and changes into his pajamas. She feels the bed shift as he sits down on it. When he puts a hand on her back she startles violently.

He immediately pulls his hand back. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Are you okay?"

She doesn't turn around. "I'm fine." She curls into herself tighter.

"Elizabeth, I'm here for you." He turns his light off and lays down next to her with a careful amount of distance separating them. "The press conference looked good. Andrada towed the party line. Did he say anything to you?"

She shakes her head, but realizing he can't see her, she says "No, not really." She needs this conversation to end, she can't talk about this without breaking.

"Hmmm. I hate that you have to do business with someone who gropes women."

The word rings in her mind, grope, it repeats over and over again until she lets out a sob. "Baby?" She can sense his confusion in that one word.

"I lied," she whispers.

He shifts closer to her and she can feel his hands hovering, wanting to comfort. "What do you mean?" He asks, perplexed. She takes a hold of one of his hovering hands and pulls it around her waist, tugging him closer until he is fully spooned behind her.

Her breathing quickens. She had known deep down that at some point she would have to tell him, but she had also hoped that she could maintain the facade for a little longer. "I…he...it was more..." The words won't come out right.

"Baby, you're scaring me. You can tell me." His voice is soothing. His hand moves from her waist and strokes her arm. Tears are falling silently down her cheeks as he kisses her hair. "Or you don't have to tell me now. That's okay too."

"I want to tell you now. I haven't told anyone else, I don't really want to." Her voice cracks as she tries to explain. He continues to hold her as he whispers reassurances. She takes a series of deep breaths. She still can't bear to look at him as she explains, but she reaches up to hold his hand.

"He did more before I punched him."

"More?" his voice is neutral.

"He...I...He pushed me down. He was on top of me. He...touched me." She touches a spot on her inner thigh and she's sure it doesn't go unnoticed by her husband.

"Elizabeth, are you okay? I mean, do you need…" he trails off and she knows he's not sure what to offer her, what could possibly make this better.

She finally turns in his arms to face him. "I'm okay, there's barely a mark."

"There's a mark?" His veil of purposeful neutrality is slipping and she can feel his muscles tightening.

"Barely. He scratched me a bit."

"On your thigh?" When she nods he continues, "On your inner thigh?" She nods again.

"It didn't go on much beyond that, I managed to get away. That's when I punched him."

Henry is now the one taking deep breaths. "Why didn't you tell anyone? I mean tell them the whole story. I doubt Dalton would have invited him to the White House if he knew everything."

She shrugs. "Diplomacy? The bigger picture?" He narrows his eyes at her. "It's just not something I really want other people to know, to be splashed across the tabloids, to have everybody have an opinion on."

His eyes are full of compassion. "It's not your fault."

She scoffs. "As if that matters. I'm just tired Henry, I don't want to fight this battle with anyone. I just want to stop thinking about it." She pushes her head into his chest. She feels like she is barely holding herself together and she hasn't even told him everything. She's told him the important parts, or enough of the important parts. He pulls her closer and she presses her lips together focusing on her breathing (if there's one thing she took away from therapy after Iran it is the importance of breathing). She does her best not to slip back into the memory, but when Henry's hand unintentionally skims her bottom she's there, in that office with Andrada.

The man had been giving her a bad feeling since she entered his office, the sort of feeling she often reminds her girls to listen to, to believe. She doesn't have that luxury though and there have been plenty of men, heads of state even, that have been more interested in trying to stare down her blouse than in solving the world's problems, and she has dealt with all of them handily. She thinks she has done the same here and if she could just find her damn phone, it's in one of her jacket pockets, she can email Russell that it's a go and get the hell out of here. Suddenly she feels a hand on her backside, fingertips skimming the top of her thighs. Instinct kicks in and she turns around, her fist ready to swing. She stops at the last second, her hand inches from Andrada's face, remembering diplomacy. She drops her arm and instead she goes for words, though she is lacking her usual grace "What the hell?"

He laughs. "Being friendly. You were going to hit me? Ha. Maybe you should join me in the ring sometime, it would be fun." He takes a step towards her reaching for her, she tries to take a step back, but the couch is right behind her. She stumbles, falling over the arm and landing on her back on the cushions, confused, her legs tangled in her coat and somehow missing one shoe. She is still trying to get her bearings and then he is sitting on top of her making some comment about how this is a much more comfortable position to 'be friendly.' He grabs for her breasts and squeezes.

Her mind can't process what's happening. She needs to push him off of her, she knows that, she can hear her brain saying that but her muscles aren't cooperating. Time speeds up, it's probably only a few seconds, but it feels like a jump because the next thing she knows he is laying fully on top of her, his mouth pressing against hers, his tongue trying to force its way in as his hands continue to assault her breasts. She can feel what must be his erection pressing against her and that finally gets her brain and body communicating again. She bucks up against him, her hands pushing at his shoulders, trying to get him to move. He pulls back and he is laughing again as his hands take her wrists and press them down to her side, holding her in place. He's strong for a small man. "Ah yes we can spar in the bedroom too, so much fun, but for now you need to stop." Her brain makes some inane comment about how this isn't a bedroom. She needs to get away. She needs this to stop. She again tries to throw him off of her, but she can't get leverage and when she pulls against his restraint of her hands he presses down harder and it hurts.

"Stop. This is the price for the deal, I could see in your eyes earlier that you understand." His voice has changed, there is no longer any amusement in it.

He's unhinged, that's all she can think. This situation is insane. "Get off of me." She means for it to come out strong and clear but it's barely a whisper.

He ignores her and leans down to try and kiss her again, she turns her head blocking him. He hovers over her instead and she can smell fish on his breath. He thrusts his pelvis into hers, grinding down. He repeats this action a few times and then he sits up, still holding her wrists and straddling her legs. He lets go of her left wrist and takes his now free hand and moves it to her thigh, tracing a line under her dress from her knee to the edge of her underwear. The second her hand is free she tries hitting him but any vital part is too far away and she has no power behind her hits. She tries to scratch at him, her nails scrabble at the arm assaulting her, scratching him. He yelps and pulls his hand back.

"You want to play rough? You like scratching? Okay." His hand is suddenly back at the top of her thigh again, and he scratches his nails down hard along her inner thigh. She cries out, she thinks he might have drawn blood. And it occurs to her that all she needs to do is scream and someone will come in. But then his hand is back under her dress, and then it's under her underwear. It's all too much, but when he releases her other wrist (and immediately goes to use his now free hand to go to her breasts) she has what she needs and with a heave she pushes herself up. She bucks her lower body up and manages to dislodge him enough that she can scramble backwards and off the couch. She kicks off her remaining shoe and stands in a defensive position, her hands up.

His eyes flash with unmistakable anger and he stands and goes to move toward her. She punches him, not hesitating this time.

Time moves forward in flashes after that. She is walking down the hallway of the Presidential Palace ignoring the commotion that has erupted behind her, telling a confused Blake that she needs to talk to Dalton immediately. Her DS agents are clearly concerned.

Then she is in the hotel room waiting for the SVTC call to connect. Dalton and Russell appear on the screen and she is telling them that she punched Andrada because he groped her. She doesn't go into anymore detail, she tells them that he grabbed her butt and she punched him which is technically true but leaves out everything in the middle. They don't need to know and she needs to fix this. It's her job to fix this.

She is on her plane talking to Henry telling him the same story. Blake is hovering nearby. She shuts Henry down when he tries to ask more questions, telling him she is tired and needs to sleep.

Then she is walking in the front door of her house wearing the same dress she has been wearing for nearly 48 hours because she hasn't figured out how to get the energy to change it or do anything other than move forward. Henry is embracing her and she wants to let the whole thing spill out, but there is work to do.

She is in the shower scrubbing her skin raw, running her finger over the angry red line on her leg.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" Henry is shouting and shaking her shoulder. She is sitting in the middle of the bed, her arms wrapped around her knees hyperventilating, rocking back and forth. Her blood is on fire, her head is full of bees. "You need to breathe. In and out baby. You're home. You're safe." She manages to turn her head and catch his eyes. It must reassure him enough because when there is a knock on their door he gets up to answer it. Stevie is standing there, sleep-rumpled and looking worried.

"Is everything okay? I heard shouting."

She hears Henry puts on his best reassuring Dad voice. "It's okay honey, your Mom just had a bad dream." She peeks out between her knees, and Stevie looks unconvinced, probably because Elizabeth is now sobbing, but she nods and walks away. Elizabeth hates that her daughter is probably worried and confused, but it's all she can do to keep breathing right now. Henry closes the door and turns back to his traumatized wife.

He sits down in front of her on the bed and lightly hold her hands. "Baby, I think you need to talk to somebody."

She pushes her head further into her knees, and a pitiful "No," comes out between sobs.

"Honey I lost you for almost five minutes there. Can you at least talk to me?"

She shakes her head and he sighs, shifting to sit beside her. "Can I rub your back?"

"Yes." Her voice is so small, so unlike her normal take charge tone.

He rubs her back and sits silently as she slowly quiets. He continues even after she is silent for some time. She feels like she might be able to fall asleep like this, instead her voice comes out. "He pushed me down or maybe I tripped, I can't remember exactly. But I was on the couch and then he was on top of me and he was grabbing my chest and trying to kiss me. I tried to get him off, I really did, but I couldn't get any power." This isn't her telling the story, this is someone else, she's giving a report, that's what it all feels like, her mouth is working without her conscious choice. "And then he grabbed my hands, he held them down. I could...I could feel him against me, he was pushing against me. And then his hand was underneath my dress and he scratched me." She's rushing this she knows, it's coming out in a torrent, but she needs to get to the end. "His hand, he..."Suddenly it's all real again, this is something that happened to her, and saying the words feels like bringing his touch back to life. Henry's hand on her back grounds hers and she pushes out the last bit. "It was in my underwear, I could feel his fingers...but then it was all over, I pushed him away and when he tried to go for me again I punched him."

Henry is quiet for a long time. She's almost about to turn around and check on him, though his rhythmic stroking hadn't stopped. "It wasn't your fault Elizabeth," he states, repeating his earlier declaration. "You did what you had to do to get out of there. His behavior was absolutely horrifying and in a perfect world we could hold him accountable. We're going to get through this together. I am so sorry that this happened to you. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."

She wants to sob with relief. Of course she had known that Henry wasn't the kind of guy who would blame her or think she was less of a woman because of this, but deep down there had been a niggling fear that maybe she was wrong, maybe he would see her as disgusting, that he wouldn't want to touch her again.

"Can you just lay with me and hold my hand. I don't think I can handle anything more right now."

"Of course babe," he says. They both shift until they are under the covers and she is on her side, but facing him and he is holding her hands. "Sleep love. It's okay. I've got you." She is too tired to do anything else and drifts off.

…

Ten more. He can do ten more he tells himself as he lowers himself almost to the floor before pushing himself back up. His muscles are shaking.

"Dad? What are you doing?"

He collapses in a heap as he hears Stevie's voice.

"Physical exercise. You might have heard of it."

He stands up and looks at his daughter narrowing her eyes at him as she stands in the doorway. "Yeah, but in the living room, at six in the morning?" He ignores her tone and moves to the kitchen to start prepping breakfast, he'll make blueberry pancakes, they're Elizabeth's favorite.

"Do you want pancakes? I might do eggs too."

She pushes on, she's so like her Mother in that way, doesn't drop a query for anything. "Did you go for a run too? You're soaked in sweat. It's kind of gross, maybe you should shower before you go cooking food."

"Did you want breakfast before you go to work or not?"

"Dad. What's going on?"

"I'm trying to feed the masses."

She rolls her eyes at him. "You know what I mean. Something happened in the Philippines didn't it? I heard rumors around the White House that something went down between Andrada and Mom and that's why there was a hullabaloo about kicking the military out."

He goes the fridge to grab the eggs and starts cracking them into a bowl. "They had a disagreement, but your Mother has many disagreements with foreign leaders, she usually comes out on top."

"Yeah but disagreements usually don't lead to her having panic attacks in the middle of the night and Mom wandering the house looking like she did after Iran."

Sometimes he really hates that all of their children have inherited keen analytical skills. He sighs, "It's not my story to tell. Your Mom will be fine, I promise, I've got it."

She arches her eyebrows, "Okay, well remember I'm not a little kid anymore and I can help too."

He smiles at her, "You'll always be my little girl with pigtails giving us very stern lectures about how we need to take care of Bootsy, your imaginary dog, while you were at preschool."

"Daaaad" she whines and throws a blueberry at him.