Summary: "Just because she says nothing, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want to." It wasn't the first time that Elizabeth had been objectified, so why did this comedian's comments cut so deep? On birthdays and grief; respect and shifting attitudes; being more than just a girl and the importance of male allies.

A/N: So I'm releasing three stories at once. I hope that at least one of them is to your taste. I could have spent months revising each one, but I wanted to get them out there before I go away for research (sans internet)—and before the new season too. Enjoy!


I Would, Wouldn't You?

Chapter One

Day One

Henry

The children hunkered over the table in the dining room. Elbows to the wood, cellphones in hands. The tap of fingers against keypads and the whoosh and whistle of apps lifted into the air and cut through the murmur of the kitchen television; its hum like the rise and fall of a lullaby in the background.

Henry squeezed into the gap between Alison and Stevie, and placed the pasta bake down in the middle of the table. The girls leant to either side, making space for him, but their gazes clung to their phones. On the opposite side of the table, Jason glanced up at the pyrex dish for half a second. Then—chime. And once more, he smirked down at the screen.

Henry slung the oven gloves over the back of his chair, the one nearest the kitchen. He sat down and looked to each of his children in turn. Nothing. "Okay, I know it's not exactly fine dining, but a little bit of appreciation would be nice."

"Sorry," Alison said. She offered him a small smile as she placed her phone down next to her glass of water. Stevie and Jason muttered what might have been apologies too, but they had yet to look up from their screens.

Henry took the serving spoon and helped himself to a scoop before he passed it on to Alison. Steam rolled off the penne pasta and molten cheese, and the aroma of sweet garlic melded with the richness of tomatoes spiralled up into the air.

Alison nudged Stevie. Stevie pocketed her phone and then took the serving spoon. She looked to Henry. "Is this vegetarian cheese?"

"No," Henry said, and he paused, fork halfway to his mouth, "but the meat isn't exactly vegetarian either."

Stevie shook her head to herself and gave a terse sigh.

"I didn't know you were back to being vegetarian," Henry said. How was he meant to keep up? It was easier to track terrorist cells than to follow the various dietary requirements of his eldest daughter.

"Nevermind." Stevie filled her plate and then left the spoon in the dish for Jason.

Jason snatched it up, dumped a scoopful on his plate and then paused. Spoon poised over the dish, he looked to Henry. "Is Mom coming back?"

"Eventually," Henry said. And he chased a piece of penne around the plate.

Jason rolled his eyes. "I meant, is she coming back for dinner?"

"Not tonight."

Jason scraped out the rest of the pasta bake. When Henry shot him a look, he gave a sharp shrug. "What? I'm hungry."

Henry shook his head to himself. Never underestimate the appetite of a teenage boy.

He took a swig of red wine; the bitterness of tannin cut through the sweetness of the tomato sauce on his tongue. The glass clinked as he set it back down on the table, and Alison's gaze darted to her phone. Henry paused. Eyes wide, he stared at his daughter. Okay, social media might be an obsession, but at what point did it get Pavlovian?

"So," he said, "seeing as Mom's not here, it gives us a chance to talk about her birthday—"

Stevie's eyes lit up, a kind of mischievous glint. "The big 5-0." And she made a gesture like a shooting star exploding in front of her.

Henry swallowed. "I wouldn't remind her of that if you want to reach the big 2-4." He mimicked her action. Then he set his fork down against the edge of his plate and folded his hands beneath his chin. "She's given me very specific instructions. No balloons, no streamers, no silly string, no mention of the numbers 'five' or 'zero', no surprises of any kind, no—"

"No fun?" Jason cut in.

Henry paused, mouth open. Her stipulations did rather limit things.

"So what can we do?" Alison asked. She raked her fork over her meal, spreading it out across her plate, and then she looked up and met Henry's eye.

"She just wants a nice, quiet family dinner," Henry said.

Jason frowned. "So what we do every night?" He gestured to the four of them sat around the table. "Unless of course there's another international crisis and she fails to show up." He jerked his head towards the vacant seat at the opposite end.

"Actually—" Stevie paused, and she raised the back of her hand to her lips as she swallowed her mouthful. "—Mom's working on the UK trade deal tonight. It's a big thing post-Brexit."

Jason shrugged. "Same difference." And he shovelled three pieces of pasta into his mouth in quick succession, a thread of cheese escaping down his chin.

"How's that anywhere near the same?" Stevie said, her brow pinched.

"Because it's Britain, so it's international—" Jason chomped away on the pasta whilst he drew circles with his fork in the air. "—and when it falls apart, it'll be a crisis."

An incredulous expression spread across Stevie's face, and she opened her mouth to speak again, but Henry cut her off. "Getting a little off topic here, guys." He rocked forward on the chair. "Look, your mom's not exactly thrilled about—"

"Getting old?" Jason smirked.

Henry shot Jason a warning look and raised his voice. "Your mother's not old." He flattened his palms against the table. "Can we please just try and make the day enjoyable for her? Without mentioning age, one foot in the grave, over the hill—"

"So one happy birthday with a good measure of censorship?" Jason said, and he raised his glass of water to his lips.

Henry's gaze steeled on him. "If you want to get through it alive, then yes." He picked up his fork again and pushed the rest of the pasta to the edge of the plate before he nudged a piece onto the tines. "Now, before you all disappear back to your lives…or your phones—" Was there a difference? "…how was everyone's day?"

"Seriously?" Jason snorted. "We're still doing that?"

"What?" Henry said. "Having conversations? Yeah, Jase, we're still doing that."

"But talking as a form of communication will be obsolete soon anyway. We'll all have headsets—" Jason gesticulated, fingers swirling at the side of his head. "—that translate thoughts directly into signals that can be transmitted to whoever we want, totally bypassing the need for speech."

Henry swallowed. His eyes widened. "Well, that's a scary thought." He took a long sip of wine. "Anyone have something a little less Orwellian to talk about?"

"A squirrel got into Russell Jackson's office this morning," Stevie said. She popped a piece of pasta into her mouth and chewed it over slowly. "Turns out he's not a fan of rodents."


Evening. Henry rested back against the headboard, a book open in one hand. The bedside lamp furnished the room with a hazy orange glow that diffused into the darkness of the corridor. He turned the page, and the mellow rasp of paper curling over paper resonated through the room.

A prickle of hairs swept up the back of his neck. He glanced up. Elizabeth was leant in the doorway, her arms slung over her chest as she watched him. The periwinkle of her shirt shimmered with each rise and fall of her breath, a pop of colour to parallel her eyes. She smiled at him, the barest inflection of her lips. "Hey, you."

"Hey, babe." Henry stuffed the bookmark between the pages and set the book down on top of the stack on the bedside table. He opened his arms to her, but instead of joining him, she tapped one finger against the corner of her lips, and her smile widened.

"You've got a little something…"

Henry frowned. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Wrong side." She padded across the floor. "Here." She cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over the corner of his lips, her eyes locked on his.

Definitely periwinkle. Though perhaps a little flat; drained of their usual spark. Tiredness, maybe. Or the other thing. The thought tugged at his chest, but before he could ask, she leant in and captured his lips in a sweet kiss.

He tangled his fingers through her hair, the strands slipping over the back of his hand. The mattress dipped beside him as he drew her closer and she perched on the edge of their bed. "Missed you." He nipped at her lower lip, and then sucked gently, just enough for her mouth to sigh open and for her tongue to meet his.

When she pulled back, she ran her tongue over her teeth. "You taste like garlic."

Henry laughed. "I might have gone a little overboard with the seasoning at dinner."

"You don't say." She stood up and walked over to the chest of drawers, and as she pulled out a pair of pyjamas—blue striped, with a shirt that lacked its top button after a little Sunday morning haste—she shot him a look. "I've had less overpowering kisses from a frenchman."

"I hope not," he said and then frowned. Overpowering as in garlicky or overpowering as in… "Wait. What?"

The spark in her eyes returned for a burst, a single wink. "I've already said too much." Then she retreated to the bathroom, leaving him to ponder that whilst she readied herself for bed.

Henry shook his head to himself and then picked up the book again. When Elizabeth returned ten or so pages later, she sat on the stool in front of the dresser and pumped a dollop of hand lotion into her palm. Henry placed the book down on the bedside table, then scrambled under the covers and propped himself up on one elbow. He watched her. She massaged the cream into her hands first, and then rubbed the excess into the soles of her feet. Unaware of his gaze—or at least seemingly so; sometimes it was hard to tell quite what she was thinking—the corners of her lips had turned downwards and there was light pinch in her brow.

"How are you feeling?" Henry asked, a gruff whisper that sprawled through the silence of the room.

"About getting old?" She lowered her foot and then stooped forward, hands clutched in front of her, gaze trained on the floor.

"You're not old," he said.

Her gaze darted to his, eyebrows arched.

His heartbeat pattered. Say something, anything. "You'll always be younger than me."

She gave a soft snort, and the corners of her lips flicked into a smile. There then gone.

His pulse eased. Crisis averted. "I meant about the other thing, but yes, your birthday too, if that's bothering you."

"The other thing," Elizabeth repeated. She rose to her feet and peeled back the covers, her movements strained as though each muscle had been tethered to a piece of string. "You mean the thing that I'm trying desperately hard not to think about?" Pain snuck through the cracks of her carefully levelled voice, and it made Henry's heart ache. She climbed into the bed and lay on her side, her back to him. With the duvet bunched around her, she let out a sigh, no more than a wisp of breath.

Henry turned off the bedside lamp. Then he nestled behind her and pressed a kiss to the tip of her shoulder before he nuzzled the nape of her neck and filled his lungs with the heady scent of coconut and the subtle depths of vanilla. He wrapped his arm across her waist, palm flat against her stomach. "I'm here if you want to talk."

Her hand covered his own, and she traced her fingertips up and down his fingers. A featherlike touch. "Isn't it a bit a self-indulgent?" she said, and her voice hitched. "I mean, it was thirty-five years ago." Her throat clunked as she swallowed. "Your parents—"

Henry shook his head. "That's different." She must realise that, or perhaps it was just a way to avoid the conversation. Over the years she had become so adept, forcing him to coax the words out of her. The only sure way was to shut her and Will in a room together and wait for the explosion, but the words that they hurled weren't the ones that they needed to use.

Elizabeth's fingers stilled. When she spoke again, her tone had lifted, but it did little to conceal the clag of emotion beneath. "The talks with the British went well. It'll take forever to get a solid deal in place, but we've laid the groundwork at least, and hopefully we'll be able to make an announcement tomorrow, so long as the White House signs off."

"That's good, babe." He kissed the spot behind her ear, and she gave an involuntary shiver that rippled through him. "It's a big win."

"It doesn't feel like it," she said, and her shoulders tensed. "It feels like…"

Henry held her. His breath stilled. He waited. Sometimes these glimpses into her thoughts felt like waiting for Manhattanhenge—the precise moment when the sunset aligned with the streets of Manhattan. Rare, precious, sacred. A single breath might chase them away.

She shook her head, and the wisps of her hair tickled his cheek. "Nevermind."

"Tell me." He squeezed her, pulling her firm against his chest. And though it was a risk, he had to say something before that sun had set—"Tell me, or I'll start asking questions about the frenchman you've been kissing."

Elizabeth chuckled, a soft sound, like the ruffle of a wave.

It washed through him, a summer tide that warmed his heart. He loosened his grip around her waist, and she rolled over to face him.

She rested her forehead against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. "It feels like everything I do—everything I achieve—is tainted by the fact that they never got to see it." She swallowed, and she dragged her fingertips up and down his side. "I…" she began, but her breath hitched. Her hand stilled.

A moment later, hot tears dampened the cotton of Henry's shirt and clung to his skin. He held her tight as he rubbed her back and peppered kisses to her crown. His chest ached, something deep tugging at his soul. What could he do? How could he take away this pain? But there were no words, no salve, no magic spell; only arms to hold her, and ears to listen, and love enough to absorb every last tear.

She let out a shuddering breath and pushed herself away from his chest. She rolled onto her back, eyes closed, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Her chest rose, then froze, and then juddered each time that it fell. Stray tears rolled down her cheeks; their tracks glistened in the night. Henry took hold of the hand that rested against her stomach, but her fingers remained limp against his own.

"Elizabeth?" he whispered.


Elizabeth

1983

The lamplight spilled out from Elizabeth's bedroom and chased away the shadows on the landing as she crept towards the top of the stairs, the empty tumbler in hand. The faintest hum of music escaped the gap beneath Will's door—though it was long after lights-out—and it drifted through the hallway. The soft tune snaked its way after her as she tiptoed down the stairs, taking care to avoid the creaky fourth step from the bottom.

The fragrance of rosemary and garlic still suffused the air, permeating the lower floor of the house. Elizabeth padded towards the kitchen, the wooden floorboards cool beneath her soles. The door was ajar, and a golden glow smouldered out through the gap, like the last licks of a fire before it dwindled into the night. Hushed voices unfurled into the hallway—her parents. Elizabeth clutched the tumbler tighter, her fingers sweating against the glass. She extended her hand, ready to knock, but then stopped.

"I know that she's gifted but that's beside the point," her father said.

Elizabeth froze. Her heartbeat thumped and echoed through her chest. She shouldn't be listening; this conversation was private, not meant for her to hear.

"Then what is your point?" her mother said.

She turned back to the stairs.

"She's a girl."

Elizabeth stopped, and it felt as though her heart had stopped too.

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't encourage her," her mother said.

"No," her father said, and he dragged out the word, "but it does mean that we need to set her expectations accordingly." A pause. The thud, thud, thud in Elizabeth's chest filled the silence. "The world isn't fair; it won't care what grades she gets. The fact is that she'll never be given the same opportunities or respect that a man in her position would."

"So you think we should tell her to aim lower?" A certain incredulity stained her mother's tone.

"I think we should tell her to aim for a path in life where she actually stands a chance." Her father's voice rose, and Elizabeth sank back into the shadows of the hallway. "What's the point in pitting herself against men? If she just stuck to things more suitable for a girl, at least she won't end up disappointed." A sharp breath. "I know times are changing, but some things will always be the same. I mean, your sister has a career, but is she really treated like an equal?"

A weighted silence. When her mother spoke, her voice coaxed. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Pause. "Just…Sometimes I think: Why couldn't Will have her talent and ambition? Then at least he'd have a chance to use it."

Elizabeth's grip on the glass slipped, and she fumbled to catch it. She dropped to her knees, and her fingers wrapped around it just in time, but the bottom of the tumbler still bumped against the floor with a thud. Her gaze darted to the kitchen door. The conversation had fallen silent. She turned and scurried up the stairs, stumbling as she barely remembered to avoid the fourth step. She dived onto her bed and pulled the duvet up around her ears. She waited. Her heartbeat measured out the silence. Moments later, footsteps plodded past her room, and then down the corridor there was a rap-tap, followed by—"Will, music off. Now."


Present Day

Henry

Elizabeth let out a shuddering breath and pushed herself away from Henry's chest. She rolled onto her back, eyes closed, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Her chest rose, then froze, and then juddered each time that it fell. Stray tears rolled down her cheeks; their tracks glistened in the night. Henry took hold of the hand that rested against her stomach, but her fingers remained limp against his own.

"Elizabeth?" he whispered, and he clutched her hand.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. The sheen of tears gleamed; the periwinkles caught in a summer shower. She lowered her hand from her forehead and let it fall to the bed. She swallowed, and her throat bobbed. Then she turned to look at him. She searched his eyes, her brow furrowed, and perhaps whatever she was looking for wasn't there to be found.

"Talk to me." He caressed her cheek, and with his thumb, he brushed away the last trace of tears. He leant in, paused, and when she didn't turn away, he touched his lips to hers, more of a flutter than a kiss. He nuzzled her nose. Her breaths came in hot puffs against his lips, and he breathed each one in, as if they were more vital than oxygen. "Elizabeth."

Softer than a whisper lost to the breeze. "I never got to prove them wrong."