Partially inspired by a prompt by lilacmermaid25 and posts on Tumblr which point out that Henry never saw the dress from 2.21 Connection Lost because he was too busy being a blockhead and getting drunk with Jose. Set between the end of S2 and the start of S3. A little more angsty than usual. Please let me know if you liked it, reviews make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
She thanks her detail on the way out of the car and ducks into the house, shedding her coat and shoes along the way.
For once, she's home at a semi-decent hour — who is she kidding, it's still half past eight but it's something at least — and she's looking forward to changing into more comfortable clothes and spending an evening with her family. These days, they're few and far between.
She sees the light in their bedroom is on and smiles to herself. Henry's been home more in recent weeks, back with the kids and he seems happier now that they know Dmitri is alive and well. It almost feels like it did before it all started, before they weren't allowed to talk and everything nearly spiralled out of control. Before he told her she reminded him of how he failed. Before he went to Pakistan and almost didn't come home to her. Before she felt like her foundation was beginning to crumble, that the one thing she had been able to consistently rely on for almost three decades was in jeopardy.
The thought had kept her up at night, and she'd realized with growing panic that she had no idea what her life would look like without Henry — it was simply unfathomable and she spent the better part of a night wondering if she'd made a mistake and lost a little bit of herself once she'd adjusted the definition of Elizabeth to naturally include Henry.
And then she'd see him in the morning, when he woke her up with a kiss and a cup of coffee, or at night, when he stayed up to wait for her, nearly falling asleep with his glasses on, his book lying open on the bed, or when he interacted with their kids and she remembered that they'd built all this, together and they'd promised each other they were in it for good.
She opens the door to their bedroom and walks to the wardrobe, unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it off along the way, leaving her in just her bra and skirt.
"Henry?" she calls, but she doesn't get an answer. Instead, she sees her husband standing in the closet, in his underwear and a half-buttoned dress shirt, holding a garment bag, his face an unreadable expression.
They make eye contact, and her gaze travels down to see the dress peeking out of the bag. Her eyes widen in understanding.
"Oh," she breathes.
He's holding the dress she wore to the thing before Pakistan — she can't even remember the name of the group that hosted it — the one that made Stevie gasp and Ali fawn over silk organza. The dress that had made her feel really good inside, and was bound to make her feel even better once Henry saw it. She'd played out the scene in her mind when she'd gotten dressed that evening, anticipation building in the depths of her stomach.
She'd imagined the look he would give her when he laid eyes on her, a mix of astonishment and attraction and pride and most of all, love and she knew she'd blush and he'd kiss her cheek and take her hand and try his hardest to stay by her side all night. They'd go through the motions of the evening, sharing their circle of two with diplomats and attachés; she'd do her job and he'd be arm candy.
And all through the evening, she knew he would whisper things in her ear, try to make her blush even more and almost convince her to say 'to hell with it all' and run home with him so he could pull the zipper of that dress down at a torturously slow pace before letting it pool at the floor. She'd imagined the end of the evening vividly too, the stolen kisses and glances, swift exit and then the stumble up the stairs, where they'd try to be as quiet as possible but still inevitably bump into something before making it to the bedroom. And then finally, the bruising kiss he'd press to her lips as he'd pin her to the door and begin to strip the dress off of her while she tried to undo the buttons on his shirt and kiss every patch of exposed skin.
And everything after that, ending with them tangled together under the covers, the dress long forgotten but their circle of two re-formed.
Except, it didn't go that way at all. Because he'd ditched her for Jose, beers and strategizing — which had really turned out to be whiskey and avoidance — and then stumbled drunkenly into their bed to tell her he'd lied because he couldn't bear the thought of accidentally facing a Russian general because he still couldn't deal with what had happened in Geneva. And even though he'd pulled himself together enough to reassure her that this was all him and he'd get through it, she'd been unable to sleep that night, still plagued by guilt and the fear that she'd made such a mess of things that it was impossible to fix.
It got better from there, and now she's back to thinking they're on solid ground again, but seeing the dress and Henry brings all the old feelings back to the forefront and she takes a deep breath.
Henry's look changes to something different, something laced with sadness and regret and she ventures to think that some version of what she's been thinking is playing out in his head right now. She takes a tentative step forward and meets his eyes, wordlessly asking him to speak. The silence between them has become deafening.
"I was looking for a suit for tomorrow…" he trails off and she nods. They're having dinner with Conrad and Lydia in the White House again, and his best suit is in a garment bag that looks deceptively like this one.
The zipper of the bag is halfway open, and he brushes a hand against the exposed fabric of the dress, careful not to crease it.
"This was the dress you wore to the thing I didn't go to," he states plainly, and she nods again. He's never seen the dress before, but somehow he just knows. He looks over at her and sees that she's trying very hard to keep her face free of any emotion, like she's afraid she'll provoke some reaction in him that will push them back to when they were skating on thin ice, ready to explode at any minute.
Mixed metaphor, shouts a voice in the back of his head, but he quiets it and forces himself to focus. It breaks his heart that she's dancing around this and he curses himself for being so selfish and getting them to this point. He sees it now — the months of pain and uncertainty he caused her, the irrational way he let his anger out at the person closest to him, and the way he's made her cagey, more reserved when they're together.
"It's beautiful." It's all he can muster, a compliment on the dress itself, but they both know he's talking about so much more, leaving volumes unsaid between them.
"Ali said it's silk organza," she whispers, "which I think is supposed to be a good thing."
He lets out a hint of a chuckle and it eases a tiny bit of the tension she's been holding in since she stepped foot in the wardrobe. She thinks it's really kind of funny that they're standing here, both half undressed, dancing around the thing that was supposed to bring them closer together, and properly free them of all their clothes. Except now — oh, the irony abounds — it's making them feel further and further apart.
He looks at her again. "I wish I could have seen you in it," he says, his voice full of sadness and regret. And then, "I'm sorry, for all of it."
"Don't apologize—" she starts, but he cuts her off, running a hand through his hair and then across his face.
"No, baby, please. I hurt you, I lost sight of the most important thing in my life and I closed myself off until I lashed out. I didn't treat you fairly, I forgot that this was affecting you too. I shut you out and yelled and went below the belt, but most of all, I made you feel like this, us, might not make it and that kills me."
He has tears in his eyes and so does she. They're at a point of mutual understanding and it's both heartbreaking and relieving to know they both realize how close they came to losing it all, over and over again. "Henry, I—"
He takes the last step toward her and cups the back of her skull with his hand, pulling her in and crashing his lips to hers. His kiss is demanding and forceful, and it takes her breath away. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses her chest to his, needing to feel him against her. She needs the physical reminder that even though they hit rock bottom, they hit it together, and they're going to get out of it together too.
She pulls away when she needs oxygen, smiling at the fact that he's still holding the garment bag. "I know," she says. It's acceptance, her own apology and a little bit of hope wrapped up in two words. For now, it's enough.
She motions for him to wait and ducks out of the closet to grab her phone. She unlocks it when she gets back and starts scrolling through her messages. "Stevie took pictures of me that night and sent me one…" she says, finding one and remembering how excited her daughters had been when they took them.
She gives the phone to Henry and blushes, looking down at the floor. Accepting compliments has never been her strong suit, even from her husband of a quarter of a century. After a few seconds, she glances up shyly.
"Babe, you're stunning," Henry breathes and she's filled with warmth that makes her whole body tingle. He's so sincere when he says it that she can't help but flush crimson.
Henry tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and presses a sweet kiss to her lips. "Have I ever told you that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen?" She nods, because of course he has, and her cheeks take on a deeper hue.
"I wish I had come that night. I wish I had been able to tell you how incredible you looked in person and see you kill it with all the diplomats, and then drive the point home later on."
He's back to regret and she won't have it. She knows they can't go back in time and change that night, or what happened after. She knows they've both caused each other pain, but she also knows that they have to move forward.
"Shh, don't go there. It's okay, it happened, and we have to move on."
He nods, but she's not fully convinced, so she tries a more lighthearted route.
"Plus, it's not that late, the kids are in their rooms, we're hardly wearing clothes and not taking advantage of the situation. Come on professor, let's do something about it."
He genuinely laughs and she can't help but join in. She kisses him again, pressing close and closing her eyes so she can revel in the feeling. He pulls back and she's confused, already missing the closeness they shared seconds ago.
"Will you put it on for me?" he asks, his expression uncertain. "I know we can't go back and redo that night, but I really want to show you what would have come after, when we got home."
He gained confidence halfway through his little speech, his voice slipping into that deep, honeyed register that always does funny things to her insides. She feels herself getting warm, anticipation building in her belly. He's right, she thinks. Better to make a good memory in this dress so it won't just remind them of bad times.
She slips off her skirt and he gazes at her in that way that makes her knees turn to jelly, busying himself with pulling the dress free of the confines of the garment bag. She wonders if she somehow predicted fate by wearing a strapless bra that morning as she steps into it, pulling it up fumbling with the zipper.
"Let me help," Henry says, walking around and replacing her hands with his. She lets him, even as she realizes how ridiculous this is.
"This seems like a waste of energy," she comments, "considering I'll be taking this off again in a few minutes."
"Maybe," he breathes in her ear, "but it's also kind of hot."
Yep, she thinks, it is, because her blood already feels like molten lava and they haven't even done anything yet. When she's all zipped up she turns to Henry and cocks an awkward smile. His reaction is even more than when he saw the picture, and she feels like she's turning to mush under his gaze.
"I love you." It's all he can manage, she's rendered him speechless and he steps toward her, kissing her hard. She clings to him like she's desperate — and who is she kidding, she is — and she slips her tongue into his mouth and duels with his. Their kisses are hungry and frantic, and they stumble out of the closet into the bedroom.
Henry manages to pin her to the wall before kissing her again, and the last coherent thought Elizabeth has is the realization that she's in the dress and right where she thought she'd be in her imagination. Which means she also knows what will come next, and how the night will end.
Henry confirms it by pulling down the zipper at a torturously slow pace and she smiles, knowing they've found their circle of two again.
Fin.