Hello again! The first section of this lil thing has been sitting on my laptop for an age, and now it's finally actually done. All timelines are based on information about Blake from S5 and what we know of Elizabeth's time at UVa; mistakes in both are mine. Thank you to E, T and A for all the help in ironing out the kinks.
It's 2:57 p.m. and Blake Moran is pacing. It's a nervous tick, really; he knows he should stop but he can't help himself. Still, every time he makes a turn and starts walking in the other direction, he can't help but think of his mother admonishing him to stay still, would you, you're driving us insane.
So he stills, finds a seat on the bench outside of the office, places his feet squarely on the ground and lets out a breath. Right. Three minutes. Much can be done in three minutes.
He rearranges the files in his messenger bag. Makes sure to double-check his resume. Smooths out his blazer. Takes a breath mint. Has half a mind to pull out a comb to fix his hair. Decides against it. Runs a hand through it instead. Holds his breath for thirty seconds. Closes his eyes — and almost misses her opening the office door, precariously balancing a stack of files and two coffees and a bag in her arms.
He's at his feet in an instant, grabs the coffee, nods as she thanks him, holds open the door and places the coffee on her desk. Then he stands there, awkwardly, waits for her to put down the files and take off her bag.
When she turns around, he's met with a broad smile and he can't help but return one himself. "You must be Blake!" She holds her hand out and he shakes it, still smiling. "Elizabeth McCord," she says. "It's so good to finally meet you."
—
Blake has always been a people-pleaser, from the time he was three and his mother put him in his first bowtie, which he wore without a fuss, to when he was eighteen and declared an economics major at Harvard just to make his father proud.
Four years of finance and business were a rote affair, but he had always been good at blending in, at moulding himself into the person others expected him to be. A hard worker, a smart dresser, a good student, a model son.
Summa cum laude, Latin honours.
His parents beamed at him on graduation day, and he forced his face into a smile too — because this was it, wasn't it? A degree from Harvard, a career lined up for him on Wall Street, maybe an MBA somewhere down the line. He was fulfilling everyone's expectations, making everyone proud, but deep down, he wondered sometimes if he even knew who he was under the layers of his robes and tailored suit.
He lasted seven months.
Seven months of coffee orders, thankless hours, bosses who saw him as a statistic, not a person. He fell into the rote habits again, let his people-pleaser side dictate his life. He was a model employee, turned in his numbers faster and more efficiently than everyone else. He perfected the system, but it felt like it was eating him alive.
It took his friend Chad — seriously, how much do your parents have to be convinced that you're going to go into finance to name you Chad — telling him over a glass of bourbon that "dude, you look kinda dead inside" for him to finally gain some perspective.
If Chad, who had sailed through Wharton on a mix of trust-fund safety nets and triple legacy status, recognized he wasn't doing well… well then, he probably wasn't.
It took him another three months, but he finally opened up his computer when he got home one night and started searching. His favourite class in college had been political theory, and right now, with no other ideas in sight, he started looking up grad school programs.
The acceptance letter came in a white envelope with a blue script — The University of Virginia Woodrow Wilson Department of Politics — and he wondered faintly if his mother would approve of the choice in font, much less of his complete one-hundred-eighty-degree life change.
"Foreign affairs?" his parents had asked over the dinner table a week later, in their brownstone on the Upper East Side, both well and truly shocked. He'd gulped down a sip of cabernet and spluttered out something about deepening his knowledge and Washington and the Beltway and then, when his father had brought up government salaries, said that well maybe, he'd go into consulting afterward, or something in the private sector, or K Street.
It was the first lie he'd ever told.
(Well, strictly speaking, he'd been telling lies by omission for most of his life, whenever he told anyone he would only bring either boyfriends or girlfriends home. But that was another matter entirely.)
He didn't quite buy the tight smile his mother wore for the rest of the evening or the dedication with which his father sliced his steak, but the quiet clatter of cutlery was better than a lecture, so he bit into a piece of potato and let the rest of the meal pass by.
Still, he was getting a joint MBA and Master's; it wasn't like he was totally abandoning his roots.
—
"It's great to meet you too," he says, the smile still on his face. "It's an honour to be working with you, Dr. McCord."
She lets out a wry chuckle and shakes her head as if she can't quite believe the title. He knows she hasn't had the doctorate for very long, is just three years into teaching, but she's already made a name for herself in the department. When he registered for classes, she was recommended to him as an adviser and someone to TA for — "a rising star at UVa, and an alumna to boot."
He'd been skeptical at first, but then searched her CV and after seeing she'd been in the CIA, Blake couldn't decide which feeling won out — admiration, or sheer terror at the fact that she probably knew ten ways to kill him. But as he stands in front of her in her sunny office in Charlottesville, he wonders how a woman this friendly could ever hurt a fly.
She's petite, with blonde hair and oversized glasses and clothes that are a mix of office wear and things he'd expect from someone who lived on a horse farm. Her office is crammed full of books — old volumes, political treatises, and, oddly, some mathematics textbooks. Her desk is stacked full of papers, and there are a handful of picture frames in one corner by the table lamp, but they're turned away from the door. Probably her family.
She takes off her coat as his gaze flits to and fro across the room.
"So I hear you ditched Wall Street for Virginia," she says, motioning for him to sit down as she starts pulling out files from her desk drawers and books from the back shelf. He nods and takes a seat, pulling out his notepad and pen so he can start taking notes to prepare for the semester ahead. It's never too early for a to-do list.
The smile on her face grows as he tells her an abbreviated version of how he ended up as a Wahoo, and when he's wrapped up his story, she gives a nod of approval.
"You're making a fresh start, I like that. I made a similar one three years ago."
"Was it a good choice?" he asks, and he doesn't realize he's said it till the question hangs in the air between them.
She takes a second, and it feels like he's hit a nerve when her eyes get dark and contemplative for the briefest of moments. She shakes herself out of it.
"It took a bit of getting used to," she says, and he has a feeling she means more than just making lesson plans and writing a dissertation, "but yeah."
"I'm glad."
She smiles again, genuine and bright. "Me too."
—
Blake thought a career on Wall Street would have prepared him for anything. Three weeks into a masters degree and stint as a Teaching Assistant, he's ready to reconsider that statement.
Elizabeth is a whirlwind. She's brilliant and kind and gracious, and almost always in a good mood, but she runs at lightning speed and expects those around her to keep up. There are days where he considers secretly bringing her decaf when he shows up with coffee to her office before lectures, but something tells him trying to trick an ex-CIA analyst would not be the best idea in the world.
Her class itself is challenging, but she's always fair, and willing to meet with all her students to help them do her best. He secretly loves following all their faces from his strategic perch in the lecture hall — from the over-confident poli sci boys who thought having a young, blonde professor would make their semester a cakewalk (they were so wrong) to the quiet students soaking everything up like sponges — and seeing her course unfold.
He stops by her office one day to drop off a stack of pop quizzes he marked over the past two days and finds her curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, a book open on her lap. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even, and he has half a mind to leave the papers and tiptoe right back out of the room when he hears her stir.
"I know you're here, Blake," she says, voice still groggy with sleep. Damn.
"I just wanted to drop these off—"
She cracks one eye open, then the other, and pushes herself upward. "Thank you."
"Of course, ma'am."
She gives him a look then, a we've talked about this and you definitely don't have to call me that look, which he knows all too well, but some habits are near-impossible to break. She shakes her head at his resulting expression and waves it off.
"You know," she starts, "when you're in the CIA, you have to be able to sleep with one eye open at all times. Be aware of your surroundings. I know a guy who could literally sleep with one eye closed." When she sees his jaw drop, she bursts out laughing. "Kidding, kidding. I was an analyst, Blake, not an operative. The most exciting thing I saw was a ping on a server."
Somehow, he's wary of believing her.
He's been piecing together her history from conversation snippets and overheard whispers over the past few weeks — because he's nothing if not thorough — and he's convinced of the fact that his boss is a force to be reckoned with. A math major at UVa, then the Company, a GW Masters somewhere alongside, and most recently, the Ph.D. in Foreign Affairs. She teaches comparative political theory and focuses her research on the Middle East when she isn't penning articles for journals or op-eds for papers. And all of that, she's done in record time.
It's no wonder she's learned to sleep in odd places.
—
Every Tuesday when they come back to her office after lecture to debrief, there's a pastry on her desk with a note, or a flower, or a coffee. She always picks it up with a smile but doesn't mention it further.
Blake is always intrigued.
It takes two months for him to broach the topic. "It seems you've got an admirer," he says, as casually as he can. He places his bag down next to the chair and holds his breath. He hopes he hasn't overstepped.
Elizabeth shoots him a look, and he feels as though she's testing out a million different emotions in the span of a second before settling on one. His pulse quickens. Eventually, a small smile spreads on her lips. "Hmm," is all she says, before placing today's offering — a tulip — into an empty coffee cup.
He knows she wears a wedding ring (he might not be ex-CIA but he isn't blind) but other than that, she hasn't volunteered information about her family and he hasn't asked. He knows plenty about her career and she knows about his short-lived stint on Wall Street, but otherwise, it's been professional between them.
Never cold, never dull, but always proper.
And he doesn't mind it, not at all. He appreciates her dedication to her work, and to their privacy. But it doesn't mean he doesn't wonder.
Classes are cancelled on the next Tuesday, so Blake only finds himself walking to Elizabeth's office on Thursday. His own seminar let out early, so he had time to grab them both coffee and make it to her building with ten minutes to spare. He's trying to find something to occupy himself with for at least eight of those ten when he notices her office door is ajar.
Deciding that it's probably not a bad thing to get started early, he knocks with his elbow and then pushes the door open to find — a man at her desk?
"Hello?" he says at the same time that the stranger looks up, and he thinks both of them must be sporting equally confused looks.
"Professor McCord's office hours aren't—"
"She's not holding office hours til—"
Well then. They both try again.
"No, no, I'm her—"
"I'm her—"
Blake and the other man both break out into awkward chuckles and he's not quite sure what to do, so he takes the half-step into Elizabeth's office and places the coffees on a low shelf. The man can't be more than a few years older than Elizabeth, and he realizes he must be a colleague of hers. Immediately, Blake turns bright red.
"I apologize, I'm early today. I'm Prof. McCord's TA, I usually come at 3. She must be running late herself. Is there anything I can help you with, professor—"
"McCord," the other man fills in, and Blake is even more confused than before.
"Yes, she'll be here in a minute—"
Right on cue, Elizabeth steps into her office, clutching a mountain of books and files. They look like they're about to slip and fall everywhere, and Blake lunges forward to help catch them, just as the stranger does the same.
"Ma'am—"
"Elizabeth—"
It's a flurry of paperwork for a minute there, but eventually, they manoeuvre it all to her desk. Elizabeth ends up standing between him and the other guy, and he sees a smile spread across her face.
"Blake, I see you've met my husband Henry."
—
Blake becomes an avid knocker after that Thursday, and then the Thursday after that, when he doesn't give Elizabeth the split-second to respond and instead barges into her office, coffees in tow.
He regrets that decision almost instantaneously, because the first thing he sees is his boss, perched on her desk with her legs around her husband, their arms wrapped around one another. Well then. He thinks if the ground would like to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole at any point, he wouldn't be opposed.
Immediately, he yelps and turns around, and Elizabeth yelps too and he's pretty sure Henry makes some kind of surprised sound before well, disentangling himself from his wife and Blake just screws his eyes shut.
It's one thing to realize that his boss is married, and very much in love with her husband, but it's an entirely different thing to well… witness it. Blake should have known, based on Henry's proclivity for leaving his wife notes and little gifts. He should have known, but then again, when had his parents ever had an openly loving relationship he could have modelled his ideas of marriage upon?
C'est la vie, apparently.
"Uh, Dr. McCord, Dr. McCord," he stammers, one forearm still shielding his eyes as he dares to face them again. "I am so sorry, I should have waited…"
He's doubling over in an apology when Elizabeth interrupts from across the room.
"Blake, it's okay. We should be the ones saying sorry."
He begins lowering his arm and sees his boss and her husband looking at him, both with matching sheepish expressions on their faces. He knows the embarrassment of the situation will pass (though probably not soon enough) but there's a small part of him — the part that believes in true love and destiny — that finds it terribly endearing that the McCords are in love enough to be making out in her office on a school day.
Of course, he then remembers that she was probably sitting on her student's papers and suddenly, he's hit with a wave of nausea. Well then.
Henry quickly makes his excuses and leaves Elizabeth's office with a chaste peck to her cheek (thank god) and then it's just the two of them, standing face-to-face, unsure of what to do. Elizabeth breaks first, trying her best to hide the laughter that's threatening to bubble up, and Blake himself can't hold it in at the absurdity of the situation.
"I hope we didn't scar you for life," she manages, and she looks appropriately scarlet.
"Eh," Blake says. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
The side-eye she gives him might be one of the most impressive things he's ever seen.
—
The rest of the semester goes off without a hitch. Blake and Elizabeth fall into an easy rhythm, working through student papers and laughing about some of the more … creative … responses to her prompts. She helps advise him on what classes to take in the coming semesters, and hints at the fact that she might get to start teaching graduate courses in a year.
Blake continues to learn more about her past, and what it means to work as an analyst handling classified information all day, in pursuit of liberty and justice for all; where sometimes, the greater good weighs out an individual need.
He comes to think of her as the strongest person he's ever known.
Her two younger children visit her and Henry in the office some Friday afternoons, and he gets the only-child crash course in caring for kids — and budding preteen fashionistas. Jason loves Lego blocks and trains and Alison loves horses and colouring books. Blake sometimes wonders how his life would be different if he'd grown up with siblings of his own, instead of alone in a stark-white Upper East Side high rise.
As Elizabeth opens up to Blake, she begins to learn more about him too, about the true roots of his people-pleasing tendencies and his carefully curated career plans. She tells him to follow his gut, and do what he thinks is right, but that sometimes, careers can take you places you don't expect.
She looks wistful for a second there, and if Blake didn't know any better he'd think she might resent teaching, just a little bit, and yearn for a life of clandestine work once again.
But then she lights up when she comes across an A-worthy essay, or breaks out into peals of laughter when someone spells segue as segway, and Blake thinks that maybe, change isn't a bad thing after all.
He graduates in record time from UVa — just cum laude this time, because joint degrees are no joke — and when he crosses the stage at graduation, he spies her in the faculty section next to Henry, clapping as hard as she can. His parents are there too; they came around to his degree eventually, filled with hope that their son would return to the private sector after his diversion into public service.
He smiles through the ceremony, partially out of genuine joy, partially to put on a brave face, because he knows that after, he has to tell Elizabeth he's accepted yet another finance job back in the city — this time as a budget analyst for a multinational group on Wall Street, his father's doing, because "Blake, they work with development NGOs sometimes, and you studied that, right?"
When he finds her later in the day, mingling with other politics professors, she immediately brightens and walks over to him, pulling him into a hug.
"You did it, Blake!" she exclaims, and he tries his best to school his features into a smile. Inside, he just feels like a disappointment. She notices, because of course she does. "What's going on?"
When he tells her, he expects disappointment, quiet rage, a wry chuckle even. What he doesn't expect is a squeeze of the shoulder and an understanding nod and the fact that she gets it, somehow, in a way he never expected.
"When I quit the CIA," she says, voice low, "I didn't expect to love teaching. I expected it to be a job, one that allowed me time with my family I didn't have before. Not everything we do has to change the world on a global scale, Blake."
He gives a solemn nod.
"We just have to commit to being good people, find integrity within ourselves, and maybe, just maybe, change a little bit of the world from right where we're standing."
—
He makes it another three years on Wall Street, falling into old habits again. There are more coffee orders, thankless hours, bosses who see him as a statistic, not a person. His people-pleaser side dictates his life again. He's a model employee, he perfected the system, but it feels once again like it's eating him alive.
When the Secretary of State's plane goes down over the Atlantic, it's a blip on his news radar. Only later that night, when he's finally back in his shoebox apartment, does he open the story and let it sink in. There's a niggling feeling at the back of his mind, something he can't quite place, but he chalks it up to a lingering fear of flying that's now been validated again.
A week and a half later, his phone rings.
Elizabeth McCord.
"Ma'am?" he asks when he picks up, clearly stunned. He hasn't heard from her in years.
"Blake!" Her voice is chipper through the tinny distortion of the phone. "Remember when I said not everything we do has to change the world? Well, I'm beginning to reconsider that statement."