A/N: Thank you so much for the amazing feedback on the first chapter! As one of you said, the show has always subtly hinted at the jealousy ;) Here you have Henry's perspective on other men and Elizabeth. I don't see him as the overtly jealous type, but rather protective/possessive… Let me know if I'm totally off-base here! Enjoy, and reviews make me happy on the inside.
Elizabeth looked even more stunning than usual in a blue, satin ballgown that perfectly brought out her eyes. Her hair pulled back with a shimmering headband, she stood on the other side of the room, chatting away with some foreign diplomat, someone Henry hadn't bothered to identify by name yet.
He stood alone in a doorway, grateful for the little moment of peace, and also for his perch — it gave him a good overview of the whole room, allowing him to observe everything happening around him. The dinner was in full swing, a jazz band in the corner playing a lively tune, everybody socializing politely and sipping champagne.
The dignitary who was the guest of honour was some sheikh from a place with a lot of oil, Henry wasn't sure exactly where, but the guests ranged from an Italian delegation to attendees from Argentina. It was perfectly orchestrated, very elegant, and positively diplomatic, everything you'd want from a dinner hosted by the US State Department.
Not that Henry was particularly interested in that.
No, he was more focused on the way the man standing next to his wife was acting, how he was leaning over ever so slightly, how he could practically feel his breath hit her skin, far too close for comfort. His hands tightened in fists at his sides, and he had to will himself to uncurl his fingers, taking a deep breath. He was being irrational, he kept telling himself. Nothing was happening.
The man was good-looking, sure, and that wasn't the inherent problem. No, Henry took the sultry looks he was giving his wife to mean much more. The looks, coupled with the toothy grins he was flashing made his blood boil. And now, to the tune of Glenn Miller, this good-looking, toothy-grinned man was asking Elizabeth to dance — which for obvious diplomatic reasons, she really couldn't have refused.
As Elizabeth spun around the dance floor, Henry couldn't keep his eyes off her. He was transfixed, mesmerized by her beauty, and at the same time, eyeing her with a protective gaze.
…
Ever since Henry had met Elizabeth, he'd been captured by her spell. She amazed him every day, her entire being captivated her. Elizabeth was arguably the smartest person he knew, quick-witted, and she always kept him on his toes.
His attraction to her had become irrevocable, he swore there could be no force strong enough in the universe to pull them apart. Not that life hadn't tried.
His deployment had happened, his family's obvious disapproval of his choice in partner, her CIA work, his missions with the NSA, Baghdad, Iran, the DIA, Dmitri, Talia, the list went on and on.
Even when all the signs were pointing at them coming apart, they found one another again, and came back together, like magnets attracted to the same pole. They beat all the odds, together, because weathering the storm was so much easier when you were not alone.
Henry had gotten to the point in his life where he struggled to define himself as a person without Elizabeth in the equation. His love for her was all-consuming, and he saw them as a unit, a team, two people that were so connected that they worked as one.
It wasn't in Henry's nature to be jealous. He knew Elizabeth would never do anything to threaten what they had. They were both too committed, in too deep to jeopardize the connection they shared.
What Henry felt instead, increasingly often due to Elizabeth's new role, was a sense of protectiveness toward his wife.
Her job came with lots of new colleagues and foreign officials who were not as comfortable with women in high-ranking positions as they should be. Henry understood they sometimes felt threatened by her power, and it filled him with a sense of rage that they used their masculinity to mask their insecurities. As a result of that, Elizabeth heard subtle pointed comments, misogyny, and snide remarks on a near-daily basis. She'd developed a thick skin — after all, this had been going on with varying levels of intensity since her work with the CIA.
It was still rather new to Henry, since he'd been further removed from her work at Langley; but now, their jobs intersected publicly and privately. So hearing the chatter sent him into a rage.
It was Elizabeth who normally calmed him down, told him she was used to it by now, that it was a reality she had to accept in order to do her job. It amazed him how she took it all in stride, out of necessity and sheer force of will. And it infuriated him all over again, that this was her normal, and that countless other women faced the same thing. His protective side brought out his feminist streak, which made Elizabeth so glad she had him — that he understood, and that he wouldn't let sexism go unnoticed.
…
Henry was still standing in his corner at the dinner, watching his wife being swept across the dance floor by the guy with the toothy grin (he'd decided to nickname him Beaver). A waiter had passed by a little while earlier, and he now stood in his alcove, nursing a flute of champagne.
A man walked up then, who looked to be in his late fifties, and introduced himself. "Dr. McCord, my name is Jack Bromstad. I've read many of your books, I'm a huge fan."
Momentarily shaken out of his concentration, Henry peeled his eyes away from Elizabeth and Beaver to shake the stranger's hand. "Nice to meet you," Henry said. "I'm afraid I haven't come across your name at any conferences. Where do you work?"
"Ahh, I'm not a religious scholar, strictly speaking. I write historical fiction that happens to include theologians on occasion. It's a hobby of mine. I'm here with my wife, actually, as I assume you are too. She works at the Canadian Embassy."
Henry was glad to be in the company of someone in a similar situation, and the two men fell into easy discussion. They talked about Augustine and Aquinas, about religion in general, and about their wives. They talked about the fact that they were so incredibly proud of the things they achieved every single day, and the fact that they hated the hoops they had to jump through just because they were women. It was true, and it made Henry furious, that just because she was a woman, Elizabeth had to prove herself more than any man would ever have to.
The song had come to an end, and Beaver had stopped dancing with Elizabeth, which meant Henry saw a perfect opening. He excused himself and said goodbye to Jack, setting down his champagne and crossing the room like he was a man on a mission.
…
Meanwhile, Elizabeth had finally finished her dance with the Italian Consul, who was attending the dinner in lieu of the ambassador, who was at home with the flu. The man was stereotypically macho, and quite slimy in the way he spoke and acted, leaning closely and managing to breathe on her whenever he dipped his head down. She was thoroughly creeped out by his actions, and her nose burnt from the sheer amount of cologne he wore, coupled with the gel he'd used to slick back his hair.
He had large front teeth, and something about them reminded Elizabeth of some sort of animal, though she couldn't pinpoint what. The thought kept her occupied though the cringe-worthy dance they shared, and she was glad for the distraction.
Sure, she had developed a certain level of immunity from the less than courteous men she'd had to deal with in the past, but some still rubbed her the wrong way. The Consul was one of them and she was looking desperately for a way out of the conversation, but none of her staff were close by, the sheikh with all the oil was on the opposite side of the room, and Henry was nowhere to be seen. She was stuck.
She felt a tap on her shoulder then, and spun around to see Henry looking at her with a sheepish grin. "May I have this dance?" he asked, gesturing to the dance floor. The band was playing one of those tunes that everyone played at formals in college, and Elizabeth was flooded with memories at countless dances she'd shared with Henry over the years.
She looked over at the Consul and began an apology. "Madam Secretary," he interrupted in his heavy accent. "Go dance! It suits you so well, bella." He pulled her hand to his lips and placed a sloppy kiss on it, before turning on his heel and crossing the room, in search of his next innocent conversation partner.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as he left, and gratefully let Henry lead her out to the dance floor. They swayed gently as the music lulled before picking up pace, and she looked up into her husband's eyes which were deep with love and admiration and something else.
"You're stunning," he whispered, pulling her close as he spun them across the room. She melted into his embrace, and they moved as one — fluid, practised and perfected after nearly three decades of dancing together. They needed no words, their gazes speaking volumes.
As the music died down at the end of the song, Henry dipped Elizabeth, and she gasped at the unexpected move. As he pulled her up again, she grinned at him, and he flashed her a dazzling smile. He pressed a kiss to her lips, chaste considering their surroundings, and she smiled again. He was the perfect partner, for dancing and in life.
Elizabeth grabbed Henry's hand and pulled him into the nearest secluded hallway, as he gave her a confused look. She quickly scanned her surroundings, making sure they were alone, before pushing him up against the wall and kissing the life out of him. After a moment of confusion, he melted into the kiss and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.
Breaking apart for air, breathing hard, Henry looked at his wife, puzzled. "What was that for?"
"I haven't told you this enough — I really like you in a tux."
"Well, I really like you in that dress," Henry flirted back, pressing a kiss to Elizabeth's temple. His gaze lingered, his eyes roaming appreciatively, and Elizabeth instantly knew something was up. She pushed him back a little so she could look in his eyes and gave him a look, silently asking him to open up.
"I don't know, babe, I just saw you with that guy, the way he was looking at you, and leaning over, and I just couldn't stand it. He was just a little too close for comfort." He looked at her with a self-conscious expression, like he didn't want to admit it had bothered him, like that would somehow make him seem possessive, in a bad way.
"Hey, don't feel bad," she quickly reassured him, resting her palms by his lapels as his hands snaked around her waist to the small of her back. "He creeped me out too. I mean, I've gotten used to men being forward sometimes, but he was a bit much. His teeth too, God, they reminded me of some animal…"
"I nicknamed him Beaver," Henry said, unable to hide a smile.
"Yes! That's perfect! He totally is a beaver." She laughed, and it was carefree and infectious, and he couldn't help but laugh along.
"I love you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair. His face grew serious again, and she responded quickly.
"I love you too."
"It just makes me so mad to see the way you're treated in this job sometimes, babe. Just because you're a woman doesn't mean you're worth any less. Hell, I'd argue the whole pregnancy thing pushes you up by a factor of like, a million."
"I know. I guess, as sad as it sounds, we have to live with the idiots and wait to find guys like you," she said, winking. "Feminists with a whole lot more respect than Beaver over there."
"Yeah. But what about our girls, babe?"
"I say we've taught them exactly what to look for."
"You're incredible, you know that?"
"I had a feeling." She grinned and pressed her lips to his in another searing kiss. After the kiss broke, they stood there for a little while, not talking much, before they returned to real life, with people and dancing, and idiots they named Beaver. But out in that hallway, only one thing mattered.
She was his as he was hers. It was that simple.
Fin.
