Takes place during 1x07 "Passage" when Elizabeth thinks Henry is possibly having an affair.
He's not cheating on you, Elizabeth, calm down. Elizabeth McCord runs the palms of her hands against her skirt, straightening out the already pristine fabric and reminding herself to breathe. He's not having an affair, he's an ethics and morality professor for God's sake. He has ethics...and...and morals, he has those, too. She's right, of course she's right. It's Henry she's talking about, he would never cheat.
Henry has been married to her for twenty seven years, why would he cheat? But they did stop having weeknight sex, and what if Henry's feeling neglected? Between the world's tendency of constantly falling into crisis keeping her away, during her rare off hours she tries to focus on her kids. And Stevie, God, their daughter had to be the one to see her father with the alleged mistress. A younger, cuter woman, who Henry hasn't been married to for twenty seven years.
"Blake!" She calls out, stepping out from behind her desk and clutching at her stomach.
"Yes, Madam Secretary?" Blake asks, popping his head into her office.
"Clear my afternoon, I have to take a...uh...a meeting I need to see to," She lies, shrugging into her coat and trying to still her shaking hands as she works the buttons of her jacket.
"Right away, Madam Secretary," Blake ducks out with her nod of acknowledgment, and she's right behind him.
She clutches at the lapel of her jacket as she walks, knuckles white from her grip. Her staff stands, but if they say anything it's lost to her. Drowned out by the swirl of noise booming in her head, and the way the walls of the State Department feel like they are cornering her. By the time she climbs into her motorcade, she's practically rubbed the skin beneath her rings raw.
She closes her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing. In, one, two, thr-what if Stevie never forgives her father? What if uprooting the family to D.C for this job was not simply a selfish move that costs her her marriage, but ruins her children, too? How would she tell Alison? Jason? She would have to hide the reasons, but they would ask questions and what if they noticed Stevie's attitudes? What has she done to her children?
"Breathe, Madam Secretary, just breathe," Fred Cole, her head of security, says making eye contact with her in the rearview mirror.
She lets out a shaky exhale as a response. Right, breathe. That's important.
Elizabeth settles against the car door, going for something resembling resting. She tries, really tries to empty her mind, a quiet nothingness sounding lovely right about now. But her mind betrays her, thoughts flooding of nights with her husband, gentle touches, and mornings after. Casual flirting across the dinner table, over children, during colds, on the best and worst of days.
What does it mean? What does any of it even matter if they aren't for her? If he can just as easily flirt with another, let his hands roam- her fist slams down hard against the car door.
Fred startles in the front, turning and glancing her over. "Madam Secretary-"
"I'm fine, Fred!" Her words are biting, and Elizabeth sighs, unclenching her fist, "I'm sorry, Fred."
"No apology needed, ma'am," Fred assures her, returning back to his forward facing position.
"Hey...uh...Fred," she starts, toying with the end of her jacket sleeve, rubbing the bunched fabric between her forefinger and thumb. "Henry...Henry said he was going to the archives today, right?"
Fred stares at her, his brows furrowing, and she immediately regrets asking. He knows her husband is cheating doesn't he? Have they all been helping him sneak this beautiful woman in and out of her house? He knows and her cheeks are burning with shame, because how must she look? The Secretary of State can manage foreign affairs and stop the world from breaking out into nuclear war, but does not realize her husband is sleeping with another woman. How pathetic she must look.
"I'm sorry, Madam Secretary, I don't know Dr. McCords daily schedule," is all Fred says for an answer.
"Of course not, sorry, Fred."
She does not know what she was expecting. Fred Cole is the head of her security detail. Henry is not his responsibility. He's disposable as far as the United States government is concerned. Finally the car rolls to a stop, and Fred is opening her door. She can already see Henry's car in the driveway. He was supposed to be at the archives. You could have the dates mixed up, Elizabeth, calm down. But she knows she doesn't. Her stomach knots as her heels meet the pavement.
He is not cheating, he is not cheating, he is- she lets out the breath that had been caught in her chest as her fingers clutch at the door handle. Henry is probably just working from home, it's fine, for an ex-CIA analyst she is horrible at lying to herself. He wouldn't bring the cuter, younger, perkier woman into their home would he? Their bed? It's the latter thought that has her swinging open the door, and he's not a cheater, he's not a cheater, he's not a cheater.
Statistically, one in two marriages ends in divorce, so she should not be as caught off guard by this notion as she feels. In one in three marriages someone admits to having been unfaithful, with twenty two percent of men admitting to having cheated. Thirty-five percent of men who cheat do so when they or their spouse are on a business trip, and he had been so adamant about not being able to come to India with her. Oh, God, she drops her purse, bracing herself against the entryway wall.
Elizabeth grasps at her jacket, pulling at it, trying to cool down because she is suddenly hot. Much too hot, can't focus, can't breathe, she might combust hot.
"There you are!" Henry's voice doesn't have the same balming effect it normally has on her.
When he bounds over to her, arms wrapping around her small frame, she finds herself turning away from his kiss. His lips instead grazing her cheek. His hands giving her shoulders a light squeeze, but he knows. She can feel him pulling back, looking her over, and brushing a strand of hair back from her face.
"Everything alright?"
She has a plan. She is going to calmly present her suspicions- and that's what they are. Merely suspicions- rushed conclusions, presented by her daughter, granted, ones that Daisy felt credible enough to bring to her attention and-
"Are you having an affair?"
The words come out and her breath rushes out after them. Well, she thinks, so much for subtle….but at least now it's out there.
"I heard it, I don't believe it, but...I...I need to hear it from you."
She would feel calmer except for the fact that he is not refuting her question. Henry stares at her, mouth hanging open, hands frozen mid-gesture, and eyes wide behind his glasses. Glasses he is slowly removing, as he shifts on his feet. Her heart is fluttering inside her chest, and no, she was imagining the worst case scenario but she was certain. No, she was certain, this wasn't supposed to be-
"Oh my god," is all she manages, pacing towards the desk in their office.
"No," Henry says by way of answer, breaking the tense silence that had fallen between them. It does little to unhinge the spiral of negativity unraveling in her mind; does little to stop her imaginings of the way Henry must have looked tangled up with this beautiful, younger woman, with blonde hair that doesn't need root touch up to cover grays yet. Her gut twists.
"You're gonna have to be a lot more convincing...immediately."
Henry shakes his head, stepping towards her but she backs away, "Have you completely lost your mind?"
And, well, that's better but then what's going on. She has seen her husband in writing mode. Henry gets so worked up about he never shuts up about it- a fact that drives her and the children a tad mad; and she hasn't seen any pages. How could she not notice these discrepancies until now? Had she really fallen this out of touch with her own marriage, her own husband? This was her fault. She never should have taken this job, but stayed right there with the horses on the farm where they were happy and settled.
"Henry, this is different. You're being...weird and...sneaky," she trails off, stopping mid-pace and glancing up at her husband. Henry has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes down not meeting hers as she paces around him. "Wait...you're working for the NSA again…"
"Yes," Henry admits and she falls forward, her forehead landing squarely on his chest. She feels like Atlas shrugging the world off his shoulders. Henry's hands hold her to him, and when she inhales she can feel the air in her lungs again.
Of course he wasn't cheating, and as relief rushes over her, she lets out an airy laugh. She lifts her head up, smoothing out his sweater, and shaking her head. "That's why you're being seen around with a cute young woman-"
"She's my handler!" Henry interrupts squeezing her hips.
She raises her brow, "I added the cute, is she-"
"My handler," Henry reiterates, letting his hands roam beneath her waistline and pulling her closer to him.
"Why didn't you just tell me, Henry-"
"They- this mission is so top secret that even the Secretary of State can't know," Henry assures her, raising a hand to brush a loose lock of blonde hair back from her face, and she leans into his touch. "I'm not going to lie to you, Elizabeth."
She chuckles, smacking her hands against his chest, "You better not."
Henry grins at her, and she cannot help herself, anxious hands grabbing at his shoulders and closing the space between them. She kisses hungrily at him, passionate passes of tongue, and arms holding him tighter, tighter, and tighter still against her, as if he might fall through her hands if she let him; like she thought he might have already.
"Hey, hey," Henry's words are whispered into her hair as they break apart, "Elizabeth, hey, look at me-" she stops turning her head away from her husband with that, and makes a point to meet his eyes. "You are the only one for me-"
"Don't say that," she interrupts softly, "I wouldn't want you to be alone if I died. I mean, I'd want you to wait the respectable period, but then after you should…" Henry stops her with a kiss. His lips entangling with hers, but it's softer than their last kiss. Less desperation, and instead a softer touch with the subtleties of reverence.
"I don't know if I could ever do better than Madam Sexytary," Henry smirks, his lips trailing hot kisses against her jawline, stopping to suck ever so gently at her neck- right below her ear, like she likes.
He shouldn't love her. He should be with someone who is present, someone who is home more than she isn't. But she can't get the words out, and at that to her unending list of selfish decisions- uprooting her family, taking a job that brings chaos to her children, not being able to tell her husband he deserves a better love.
Elizabeth turns her nose into his chest, breathes in the smell of him- dry cedar and faintly of vanilla, like the old pages of a well loved book. Henry's hand is in her hair, fingers tracing from her temple, down behind her ear, along her neck. Slow, lazy passes that elicit goosebumps from her skin, and make her mouth run dry as he kisses her. His hands skim down to her rear and squeeze, drawing a gasp out of her.
"Henry," she breathes into his ear, "Don't start something you don't intend to finish."
His lips are on hers again, tongue eager and warm against hers, and his nose brushing her cheek, "Who said I don't intend on finishing," Henry asks, stepping closer and closer until she is firmly pressed against the edge of her desk. His hands kneading lightly at her hips.
"Oh?" Elizabeth says sucking on her lip, a mix of hesitancy and urgency to her words. She did tell Blake to clear her afternoon- granted that was when she thought she was going to be spending the time watching her marriage combust, but this...Would her staff really miss her if she took a second lunch? The world could hold itself together for a bit, she wagers as she shrugs out of her jacket, watching it crumple onto the floor.
"Mhmm," Henry confirms hands leaving her hips. His fingers, instead, making quick work of the tie on her blouse. "I can't stand the idea of you thinking I'd ever want to be with someone else," he tells her, shoving the now relaxed fabric of her shirt aside, and planting kisses along her collarbone that send shivers down her spine. And yes, this is good, but she doesn't want to talk about this now. Not now when her husband's mouth is roaming down her chest, and his hand is dipping beneath the cup of her bra, his thumb swiping over her nipple.
"No talking," she rasps, her fingers curling in his hair. Henry puts some space between them, and she huffs out a frustrated sigh because he had been right there. Her skin flaring with gooseflesh at the loss of contact.
"Elizabeth," Henry nudges her cheek with his nose. Please, can we not do this now, she starts but he doesn't listen, reassuring her anyway, "I'm not going anywhere."
"We should move this upstairs," Elizabeth segues, seizing the moment to remind him of where they'd been. She cups his face in her hands, pulling him back to her.
"I'm rather fond of the idea of having you here, in the study," Henry breathes into her ear, tugging the sleeves of her blouse up, up, and over, dropping it haphazardly. She watches it crumple from the corner of her eye as Henry sucks at her pulse point, can't bring herself to focus, despite the anticipation making her pulse thud inside her, because of it.
"I- I just-" she pushes away from him, holding up a finger before bending down and picking up her shirt. She shakes it out, and makes quick work folding it, setting the now folded item beside her blazer on her husband's desk. Really? She hears Henry chuckle, running a hand over his jaw. "I just, I have to wear that back to work and if it's wrinkly Blake will say something- and it'll, it'd be a whole thing and-" she throws up her hands, and Henry laughs, taking her back into his arms and combing his fingers through her hair.
"Sorry," she apologizes, "Continue," she blinks up at him with a smile, letting her fingers play with his belt loops. Henry shakes his head at her, wrapping his arms around her back. His hands are warm against her newly exposed skin, and she gives him a quick peck for good measure, but once their lips touch she wants more, needs more.
Their mouths crush together in a heated, bruising kiss, hands skimming and clutching and he breaks away from her lips and plants kisses down her throat, her chest. Henry skims a hand down her belly, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her slacks. She opens her legs for him easily, trailing kisses along his jaw, stopping to nip at his jugular, as she draws back a hand to unbutton her trousers.
And Henry's entirely too dressed for her preference. She makes space enough between them to tug at his sweater, gripping his undershirt along with it and yanking them both up in a failed lithe movement. The shirts catching on Henry's shoulders and leaving him momentarily incapacitated, as she works to free him. She laughs, muttering apologizes for her rather rough strip of her husband.
"Better," she tells him, running her palms over his newly exposed chest, and letting her hands roam around him, squeezing at his rear and tugging him back against her. Henry's hands find hers, intertwining their fingers. His lips ghost over her knuckles, and then his fingers are cuffing her wrists to the desk, on either side of her.
Elizabeth swallows.
Oh.
It's been awhile since they've done this, since he's had her in his grasp, and she's relinquished control. She's rather fond of submission, finds it oddly erotic to have one area of her life where she can let go, and submerge herself into simply following orders- into just doing. And Henry is anything if not hyper aware of her, so yes, he knows exactly what he's doing as his grip tightens around her wrists. Her breath shallowing, chills covering her skin.
"I'm going to take you on your desk," Henry's voice is a low growl in her ear, as he presses her back, back, back until she's laid out over her desk. Files spread out beneath her, or finding a new home on the floor. She tenses, because she's going to have to clean that up, and what if the files on the floor get mixed up- how late can she really afford to be getting back to wor-
It is as if Henry can sense her thoughts, because he's promising her on his next breath, "I'll clean that up later," and then kissing at her sternum. He moves her hands so they are above her head, holding them there in one hand, and moving his right hand down, down, down. Fondling her breast, and biting lightly at the skin before returning to her. She gasps, squeezing her thighs together, needing any sort of friction where she's hot and wanting. God, she's riled up, hadn't realized how riled up this had all gotten her. She isn't sure if it's the spur of the moment thrill of it or the relief at his touch- just for her, as her every breath presses into his chest and belly, dances with Henry's in the mere centimeters of space separating their lips as they break apart and come back together.
"Eager are we?" He asks, a hand dipping beneath her waistband and palming at where she's already wet.
"Henry," she near whines, rocking into his hand.
"I'm right here," Henry grips her hips, pulling her to the edge of the desk, and she can feel him press against her. She moans, tries to bring her hands down to him, fingers making it as far as undoing his belt before his hands catch hers. "Not yet," he pins her hands back down, planting a kiss on her wrist for good measure.
"I want to make you feel good," his hands leave hers, shoving down her slacks and lacey underthings in one quick motion. She arches her hips and he moves his kisses lower, scooting down her stomach, he has to taste her, wants to feel her on his tongue, wants to make her writhe and shake and come for him, and erase all doubt that she has that he would ever want to find himself between another woman's legs.
"Only you," he whispers against, and she can feel his breath where she is aching for him. Please, Henry, she whimpers, her fingers knotting in his hair. "Ah," Henry stops her, returning her hands to above her head, placing her fingers so they grip the top edge of the desk.
"If you let go, I'll have to stop," he states, sucking at the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, "and I know how dreadful," his words are hot against her, have her fingers tightening their hold on the desk, her body writhing in anticipation, "that would be."
He settles there, loops his arms around her thighs and swipes his tongue over her clit. She moans and jerks, Henry, his name a whine on her lips, and there is no better place than here, as she spreads her thighs wider for him as he drags his tongue through her folds, scoops up the taste of her, and he groans against her. Never loves her more than this, when she's pressed to him, warm and alive and vibrant and Elizabeth.
She lets out a small eager sound in her throat as he dips his tongue inside, slides one hand around and tips her hips for better access, and fucks her with his tongue. She is sure her grip is going to break off the edge of her desk, certain that when all is said and done, as he licks hard at the inside of her, and she makes these noises, sharp and gasping, wanting desperately to shout for him, that she will end up with the wooden edge broken off in her fingers.
"Henry!" she cries out, as he draws his tongue out of her and brings it up to her clit, flicks it against her in the way he learned long ago drives her absolutely mad. Henry draws one hand down from her hips, beneath his chin, easing one finger into her, then a second. Her soaked body taking them easily, almost greedily, and he angles his thrusts just so with the fluttering of his tongue against her, and Elizabeth lights up. Her body writhing at the attention, flaming out, hips rocking, thighs shifting, back arching, hands clawing desperately to maintain their grip and not root themselves in Henry's hair, around his neck, anywhere to hold him against her, and give her more, more, God, more.
He ups his pace and she's near hollering, trying to fight back moans through clenched teeth because her security detail is right outside, and a window of separation is not enough for her to feel confident in screaming at what her husband is doing to her and then walk out and face them like nothing happened. His fingers thrust and thrust, angled just right to send pleasure pulsing through her, and then he picks up speed and force. Enough to have Elizabeth crying out, have everything going tight and tense, needy.
Fuck, she's gonna come, she's going to come, and then it's his name falling from her lips again and again and "oh" and "I'm gonna" and "fuck, more" and then he's gone. Elizabeth can't help the frustrated cry that falls off her lips, "What are you-" but then she hears the scratch of his zipper being lowered and her pulse stutters in anticipation, body tense from being close- so fucking close.
And when he pushes into her in one quick swoop it's electric, lighting her up. She cries out, she is so tight having been just on the edge, and he stops, works an apology between breathes, but she is shaking her head, assuring him, "It's good, it's good-" she gasps, hiking her thighs up, her knees pressing against his ribcage.
Henry watches her, watches as her jaw drops with pleasure, and he draws back his hips, snapping his into hers in quick, sharp, thrusts that leave her biting on her lip- trying to hold back her moans. He brings a hand down from her hips rubbing at her clit just so, and she was close before but that's all it takes and she's a goner. She's coming and crying out incoherently, broken expletives, wordless cries, Henry, Henry, Henry, her fingers digging into the wood of the desk and god, she wants to touch him, and she's already unwinding.
She abandons the desk, jolting up from the desk, gripping his neck and their mouths crush together, a heated, bruising kiss, hands clutching at him desperately, and that's all it takes to pull him after her. He pushes hard and deep, and groans and groans and then collapses against her. Elizabeth spread out beneath him on the desk, his fingers working through her splayed out tresses. They're both gasping for breath and sweaty, but perfectly content to linger in each other's arms for a bit, enjoying the tiny quakes of pleasure of aftersex.
She lets out a little sigh, a soft, satiated thing and tries to extricate her leg from his hold, and Henry shifts, and that's better- not quite so bent in half. Her breaks away from her, and plants kisses down her throat, gentle, affectionate markings not as desperate as before. Elizabeth bumps her forehead against his, giving his biceps a light squeeze, before reminding him, "I have to get back to work."
Henry chuckles, pushing himself off of her and pulling a few tissues from the box on his desk. He zips himself back up, and sets to work cleaning her up. She sits up, combing her fingers through her hair and raising her brows at Henry. Better?
"Casually windswept at most," he nods, tossing the used tissues into the trash bin and giving her thighs a light squeeze. "Here," he adds, grabbing her blouse from where it rests, neatly folded on his desk.
"Ah, thank you," Elizabeth grins at him and shrugs into it, tying the front. He offers her his hand, and she takes it eagerly, hopping off the desk with only a few minor cracks of protest from her body. "Henry," she laughs, "are we getting too old for this?"
"Never," Henry promises, pulling his sweater back on, and his glasses.
"Good," she smiles, pecking his lips and he catches her as she starts to retreat. Stroking her hair, cupping her cheek, and stealing a longer, deeper kiss.
"Only you, babe, only you," he cups her cheek and she smiles against his lips as they ghost back over hers. "Even if we're going to have to start retiring some of our more risque ways of getting our freak on." She rolls her eyes, and he helps her into her jacket, seeing her out the door with another reflexive parting smooch.