The Second Coming of Blake Moran
A series of (five) vignettes in the life of Blake Moran on his journey to the State Department and his relationship with Elizabeth McCord.
"When MSec sits down with me, she has to think I'm the second coming of, well, me." Blake Moran, The Courage to Continue (S5E8)
Author's note: I adore the Blake/Elizabeth relationship. I've used some facts & tidbits from the show, as best I can, and borrowed some of Blake's famous lines. The rest is a product of my imagination. This story is for 2queens1prince, because she asked nicely. And because I owe her one- or several.
Winter 2006, Charlottesville, VA
Blake Moran was flustered. More than flustered. Blake was rocketing toward the threshold of distraught. He was running late to his 9am class and clueless as to the location. He shouldn't have attended that welcome back party last night, but he desperately wanted to fit in. Even in his second semester, Blake was still picking his way through the social morass of college life. In his opinion, being a freshman was miserable.
He'd poured the second cup of coffee intending to stave off the pounding headache from too much cheap beer. He shuddered. A night of cheap beer never ended well. The college life stereotype thrived at UVA. All of this privileged money, and yet these students still chugged cheap beer. The beer alone was reason enough to boycott campus parties. But that second cup of coffee, which he managed to spill all over his course information and his clothes, was Blake's downfall.
He'd hastily rushed out of his dorm room after unsuccessfully cleaning the hot, sopping mess on his shirt, blotting what he could of his papers.
Now, standing on the Lawn, Blake hesitated, calculating his bearings. And felt wet on his face. He glowered at the grey, dreary sky of January in Virginia, and blinked more snowflakes off his eyelashes. Indicative of his carelessness, Blake didn't check the weather, either. Suede won't survive snow, he thought. Damnit. Now he'd ruined a pair of his favorite shoes, too. He pulled his coat tighter around his body, and fished for the gloves in his pocket. Great. No gloves. Could this day get any worse?
Inhaling sharply in the frigid air, Blake fervently pleaded luck to be on his side as he turned toward Nau Hall. Here goes nothing, he thought, as he hurried to find shelter from the falling snow.
Blake rushed in the door with ten minutes to spare. Not as late as he'd expected, he sighed in relief. The lecture hall slanted sharply, a steep slope from the door down to the front row. And of course, the only empty seats occupied that row. Typical. No one wanted to sit up front; too much of an obvious target for ambitious professors. He groaned, resigned.
Elizabeth McCord nearly vibrated with nervous excitement. Teaching her first course at the University of Virginia marked a huge milestone to achieving a tenured professor position. She'd already gained research experience in the politics department, building on her masters' thesis while working toward her doctorate. Elizabeth had adapted easily to the flow of academia once she'd made the transition into this phase of her life. She enjoyed the challenges of learning, and of creating untraditional solutions to developing conflict, without the constant pressure of war and terror weighing on her shoulders.
But then the Dean called over semester break. Dr. Hopkins had unexpectedly taken a leave of absence, and the department needed a lecturer for Introduction to Political Theory. Theory wasn't her forte; Elizabeth's research focused on the Middle East, as a natural result of her time at the CIA. She'd set her goal to teach the International Relations of the Middle East course, or to create her own curriculum someday. She figured the latter was a pipe dream, but doing so was on her bucket list. However, she wasn't turning down an opportunity to start teaching at UVA, even on a temporary basis. She had a semester's experience at a Piedmont Virginia Community College under her belt already, so Elizabeth had no doubt she could prove herself given the chance.
She had agreed to take the position, and crammed for the spring semester over the next three weeks, much to Henry's chagrin. He had understood the importance of the opportunity for her, but they'd still argued over her diminished time with their family over the holidays. Elizabeth practiced and prepared, actually talking through the main points of her lecture in the darkened room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Elizabeth strode in the door at five minutes before the hour, pausing at the top of the stairs to unwind her scarf and unbutton her coat. She adjusted the leather bag slung over her shoulder as she sipped her coffee and surveyed her surroundings. The lecture hall was nearly full, as typical of a lower level class. No one ever wanted to sit in the front row, Elizabeth acknowledged with a slight chuckle. Well, she always did- the exception to the rule. So, apparently, was one young man, who sat in a chair slightly off center.
Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and descended into the cacophony of chattering coeds. As her long legs carried her to the desk next to the podium, the students noticed her arrival.
Hey, weren't we supposed to have some old guy? This professor is hot!
Yeah, I heard he spit when he talked. That's why no one will sit in the bottom rows.
This class might not suck, after all.
I didn't know we had any new profs.
Someone said they saw a hot blonde hanging around Gibson Hall. But she was with one of the religion professors. Dr. McCord, I think.
Damn, all that's wasted on some stuffy religion guy?
Elizabeth smirked at that comment. Whispering was lost on this crowd, apparently. Let's see if they're as witty under pressure, she thought. She'd be offended if she wasn't nearly giddy at knocking off some of their snark in the next hour. Elizabeth almost rubbed her hands together in glee.
The murmuring broke through Blake's intense focus on the textbook in front of him and he ventured a glance around the room. He'd hoped the routine of preparing for class would calm his anxiety, to no avail. Blake still enjoyed the physical process of handwriting his notes, but had already shredded the edges of his notebook in tiny piles on the desk.
A blonde woman in jeans, heeled brown boots and an army green coat descended the stairs behind him. Her youthful appearance created the impression she was a student, but her demeanor projected a poise and boldness far beyond what an underclassman would possess.
He didn't disagree with the assessments he'd overheard- she was beautiful- but her confidence was even more powerful.
Blake suddenly, strangely, felt rather protective. He half turned and projected his voice. "Why don't we all take a seat and think our private thoughts, shall we," disdain evident in his tone. Several snickers followed.
Crap. Did he really do that? Well. He didn't know any of these people, anyway. One semester- please God, no group projects- and he was out. Electives were a colossal waste of time. Why did he need anthropology on Wall Street?
The woman paused as she set her bag and coffee mug on the desk, glancing his way while she unwound her scarf. Her piercing blue eyes startled him. She inclined her head, as if she'd heard Blake's comments and appreciated the sentiment. Another moment passed, then she rolled her shoulders and gathered herself, walking in front of the podium.
"Good morning."
The class were still talking amongst themselves, but she waited, patiently, until the din quieted, that brilliant blue scanning the room.
"I'll try that again. Good morning. Welcome to Introduction to Political Theory."
Well, shit. Blake fervently willed the floor to open up and swallow him. Politics? He was supposed to be in anthropology. Rather reluctantly, but still. Damn that beer. And that coffee. He'd chosen Nau Hall because most of the larger humanities courses were held in that building. Obviously, he'd been very, very wrong.
Blake slid his anthropology book off the table into his lap, hoping no one would notice. So that's what the snickers were for, he thought. Not only did he make an ass of himself with his comments, everyone knew he was in the wrong place.
Now what? To leave now would call attention to his plight, but to stay would do the same. Through the buzzing of his frantic thoughts, Blake heard the professor continue her greeting.
"I'm Elizabeth McCord," she announced. "Dr. Hopkins took an emergency leave of absence this semester. As a result, you're stuck with me."
"Some of you may have seen me over at Gibson Hall." She stared directly at the student who made the relevant comment. He visibly hunched over in his chair. "I've been researching my PhD in politics at UVA since last summer, but to be honest, you're my first class here."
Elizabeth snorted inwardly as she heard several exclamations of relief that an inexperienced professor would render the class a cakewalk. These students were in for a rude awakening.
Blake nearly cringed at the awkwardness of the moment, but Elizabeth calmly surveyed the room.
"Despite that fact, I'm no rookie," she continued. "I was a CIA analyst for 15 years. Don't mistake my kindness for weakness, or my inexperience for naivety. I can assure you, neither is true."
The room quieted as she spoke. "I also know 10 ways to kill a person with my bare hands."
The ensuing silence was deafening.
"Ok, people, loosen up a bit," Elizabeth shook her head, the corners of her lips quirked in a half smile. She opened her hands, palms up, as if to say 'well, I tried', but the students' reaction didn't seem to faze her.
"I majored in math as an undergrad and then earned my masters in foreign affairs, both here at UVA, so I'm a lifer."
"I learned Farsi and Arabic during my tenure at CIA, French and German before then," she continued. "I know a little Spanish, probably just enough to get in a bar fight." Elizabeth held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. Laugher skittered among the students. "Or starve because I mistakenly asked someone to sew for me instead of cook. My family claim my cooking skills are horrendous." She shrugged slyly.
"I have three kids, so theoretically I should be good at wrangling cats, but I'm lost most days with them, I tell ya. And 6th grade homework is hard," she conceded.
A hand raised, followed by, "So this class will be easy, right? You know what we're going through."
"Hardly," Elizabeth responded, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
"Your textbook requirements and syllabus were posted over the break. I assume you've all had a chance to review the materials. If you have any questions, I'm available during my office hours." She paused again, considering her audience.
"For now, we're starting with the social contract tradition. Your first readings are from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan."
Blake heard the frantic shuffling and groans at the realization Elizabeth McCord wasn't a typical professor on a typical first day lecture. At least he wasn't the only one unprepared, he thought, even though his relatively legitimate excuse wouldn't save him.
"My husband is a religion professor, and when he's not quoting from his beloved philosophers, his favorite pastime is imitating Socrates. I'm always the focus of his Socratic method, so I've been waiting for my chance to turn the tables." A lone snicker followed her wry comment.
During her monologue, Elizabeth had been pacing along the front row. Now she stopped, directly in front of Blake.
Placing both hands flat on the table, she leaned slightly forward.
"What's your name?"
"Um, Blake. Blake Moran. Ma'am," he stuttered.
"Based on the introduction, Mr. Moran, why does Hobbes think that it is important to carefully read oneself when laying out a doctrine of political theory?" Her question rendered him speechless.
Blake's mouth gaped open, in a proper imitation of a fish. He tried to speak, took a breath, and started again, unsuccessfully.
Elizabeth waited for Blake to compose himself, not breaking eye contact.
His first coherent thought was: 'She's going to know if I'm bullshitting her. So why bother? He'd already embarrassed himself enough at that point. Right?'
"I don't know," Blake finally admitted quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
The ensuing laughter rushed over him like a wave.
Elizabeth considered Blake a moment longer, her expression unreadable, then walked a few steps to her right, focusing on another student.
Oh, thank God. Blake all but melted into the chair. Someone else could be tortured for awhile.
Despite his earlier humiliation, Blake found the next hour utterly fascinating. Elizabeth McCord had presence. Her intelligence shone in her command of the room as she thoughtfully and carefully led her students through the discussion.
Elizabeth finished her sentence, and glanced at her watch.
"That's all the time we have today. Next class we'll discuss chapters 13 and 14 of Leviathan. I'll see you all then," she concluded.
The sudden commotion of the gathering of books and shuffling of chairs startled Blake from his reverie. He shook himself into focus and quickly packed up his bag. Maybe he could run back to his dorm and hide for a month. Not in these ruined shoes, he sighed. How fast could he shuffle?
"Mr. Moran, hang back a minute."
Blake gulped, leaving his bag on the table as he stood, and made his way to the podium. Elizabeth had donned her coat and was wrapping her scarf around her neck, studying him while she did so.
"I expect my students to be more prepared for the first day of class," she admonished gently. She had to look up at him, even in her heeled boots.
Blake managed a nod, and a timid "yes, ma'am". His brown eyes skittered everywhere but her gaze.
"You weren't supposed to be in my class, were you?" Blake froze, like a deer in headlights.
"I saw your textbook," Elizabeth offered. "And you're not on my roster. I may be former CIA, but it doesn't take tradecraft to figure it out." Her smile was back, more sarcastic, this time.
"Oh, yes, well, I …." Blake stammered.
"Relax," she smirked. "I was an analyst, not James Bond. I don't really know 10 ways to kill a person. That was supposed to be a joke."
"Yes, ma'am, um, no ma'am."
Elizabeth held up a hand, saving Blake from stumbling over his response. "What's your major? I haven't seen you around the politics department, and I know most of our students by face, if not by name. I've haunted the religion department a bit longer, thanks to a certain stuffy professor."
So she had heard the comments. Blake blushed. He could sense her amusement, so tried to suppress his embarrassment. He hadn't actually said anything, after all.
"I'm a Commerce major, ma'am, with a concentration in finance," he clarified.
"What made you stay?" Her question was laden with curiosity.
"Other than the sheer embarrassment of leaving from the front row?" Blake shrugged, sheepishly.
"Yes, other than that." Her blue eyes twinkled with laughter. "Commerce majors aren't required to take this class, other than as an elective. I gathered you were supposed to be elsewhere."
"So what made you stay?" she repeated.
"You're awesome, I like you, and you're awesome," Blake blurted. "Maybe I reversed those. Was that inappropriate?" He cringed.
"No, but you're probably too flattering. I'm not sure anyone else thought I was quite that awesome. You were one of the few not stifling a yawn every 10 seconds," Elizabeth observed.
"Perks of the front row. Or petrifying fear," Blake decided, ironically. "But I really was fascinated."
Elizabeth's laughter rang through the quiet room. "None of my jokes were landing. Must've been that sleep deprivation they were all exhibiting. Or lack of coffee." She rolled her eyes.
He shrugged in solidarity. "No one seems to get my sense of humor, either."
"You aren't just kissing up, are you?" Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "That doesn't work with me."
"I'm a type A people pleaser," Blake qualified. "I'm born to impress. I'm just not doing a very good job of that right now."
"So I gathered." Elizabeth paused for a moment, measuring his reply. "Well, I'm glad you survived your first last day, at any rate. If you need an excuse for your anthropology professor, let me know. It's the least I can do for your undivided attention, even if it was terror induced." She winked and picked up her bag.
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Moran." Elizabeth nodded and started toward the stairs.
"Um, Dr McCord, ma'am."
She stopped and turned. "Elizabeth is fine. I'm not quite a doctor, yet," she acknowledged.
"May I stay in your class? I'll need an elective, and, well, I wasn't really thrilled about taking anthropology. Just one of those fine arts requirements I figured I'd suffer through."
A strange look flickered through the brilliant blue, and just as quickly, was gone.
"I'm a freshman, so need to get my electives finished before I start requirements for my major. My advisor stuck me in the class because of my schedule, and the other options were full. This one might actually be full. I shouldn't assume. I'll just go back to anthropology. If I can find it." Blake frowned. Damnit, he was rambling, again.
Elizabeth seemed amused. "Are you sure? This class won't be easy, even as an intro class. And I will expect you to be prepared, next time."
"I don't mind hard work, ma'am. I usually do end up in the right place the first time. And I'm usually much more prepared than I was today."
"Well, I'll let you in on a widely known secret. This building has the only Starbucks on campus. We have a prime location this semester." She toasted with her coffee mug. "So you might have actually come to the right place."
"But you look to have had your fill of coffee this morning, no pun intended." She gestured at his shirt.
Blake grimaced at the reminder. "Yeah, I wish I could walk that back."
"It happens. It's a Monday. And it's snowing." Elizabeth waved toward the window, where the snow fell heavily behind the panes. "I say you get a pass for today. Have your advisor email me, and I'll make room in the class for you. Wednesday is your second chance, Blake. Make it count."
Hearing a door close, Elizabeth looked toward the top of the lecture hall. Her smile bloomed brighter than sun on the snow, completely transforming her body language.
Blake followed her eyes to the silhouette of a dark-haired man. That must be the religion professor, he thought. He doesn't look the least bit stuffy, and felt a bit guilty for the thought. And damn, he's a lucky guy.
"There's my date for that not-so-secret coffee. Makes our location even better, if you ask me." And with a wink, Elizabeth ascended the stairs.
Blake stared after her, absorbing their conversation. He paused for a moment, pensively, and then straightened his shoulders. He gathered his coat and scarf, and his bag with the anthropology book he planned to return immediately.
Blake Moran was determined Elizabeth McCord wouldn't be disappointed.
Disclaimers: The Spanish words for cooking and sewing are very similar and easily confused. Elizabeth may very well have been the only person who got her joke, per usual. (Dr. Hopkins is one of my favorite undergrad profs, although he *didn't* spit, but supposedly another one did.) The details of Elizabeth's life & career are based on the ridiculous (our words) timeline 2queens1prince has published on tumblr (updated version is coming soon). I chose for Blake to attend UVA as an undergrad (based on his comment in season 5 that he was Elizabeth's student).