It makes him crazy with worry the first time.
Elizabeth comes home from four days God knows where, stepping into the tiny entryway of their proportionately tiny apartment with a duffel slung over her shoulder and a glassiness in her eyes. Henry notices, but decides that now isn't the time to ask; it's only been four days, but he's missed her terribly and wants nothing more than to hold onto his wife for as long as she'll let him and accept any snippets of her trip that she can in good conscience disclose.
When he moves toward her, though, he starts to think they might have more pressing issues to attend to. She won't quite meet his eye, offering only a tightly forged smile, and though she hands him her luggage when he gestures for her to do so, she splays her fingertips against his t-shirt when he tries to hug her in greeting, holding him at arm's length. His chest tightens in worry.
"Hey, what's wrong, Elizabeth?" he keeps his voice low, even, as he notes the tenseness of her body and the calculated depth of her breaths. "Are you—," he doesn't know exactly how he was going to finish that inquiry (okay? hurt? in pain?) but it doesn't matter, because her face twists suddenly and then she's pushing past him in the narrowness of the entryway and dashing through the apartment to their bedroom. For a brief moment Henry is little but a statue, thoughts and heart racing in equal measure, but then he's following in her footsteps down the hall, through the bedroom, finally locating Elizabeth in the adjoining bathroom.
His wife is hunched over the toilet, retching. He drops to his knees behind her, intending to hold her hair away, to rub her back, to somehow soothe as he has in the past: in a UVA women's room as nerves before her final thesis presentation wreaked havoc on her stomach, in his college apartment before a harried emergency room visit and appendicitis diagnosis, and in this very space as the flu ravaged her body a month after their wedding. This time is apparently different; he gets as far as twisting her hair back in his hand before her own hand is flailing blindly behind her, pushing at whatever parts of him she can reach. He's bewildered, and moves up beside her in the hopes that if she can see him properly, she'll accept his presence as a helpful and familiar one. His hand rests on her shoulder as he murmurs quiet reassurances that it's just him, that she's ok.
She seems unconvinced, still trying to push him away from her, and gasping out a heartbreaking "please," between waves of her body's rebellion. He holds up his hands in surrender at that, backing away across the small space where he settles into a crouch, watching as she grasps her own blonde waves back in trembling fingers and continues to vomit.
Confusion and concern are threatening to overwhelm him, and he has to clench his hands in the excess fabric of his sweatpants to keep from unconsciously reaching for his beloved wife, who is so clearly unwell in some way. When she's fully emptied the contents of her stomach she dry heaves for several moments, as if trying to rid her body, or perhaps her mind, he thinks later, of some repulsive toxin. It seems endless to Henry, but eventually she sits back on her heels, dropping her hair and resting her head in her hands briefly.
"Babe, I—," he begins, but she silences him with a shake of her head, getting to her feet a little bit unsteadily and flushing the commode's contents. She so obviously can't bear his touch right now, so he stands too, maneuvering away so that she can get to the sink and door unimpeded. She wordlessly brushes her teeth, splashes her face with water, and pulls her hair back into a clip, wetting the back of her neck with the cold of the sink water, as well. Only then does she turn to him, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly.
"Hi, honey. I'm home," she tells him with a small smile, a real one this time, and she seems finally able to meet his eye. Hers are clear now, and the blue of them takes his breath away, even now, even after two years of marriage and a too recent bout of intense worry. He takes her standing form in, assessing for visible injury around her fitted tee and loose cargo pants, but finding none.
"Elizabeth, are you alright? Are you hurt? I mean—," he starts in a rush of one breath, but she stops him, taking another step in his direction.
"I'm perfectly alright, Henry. In fact, I'd say I'm doing quite well now." she tells him, smile not leaving her.
She's actually pretty convincing, and though his concern is still there, it lessens at that expression of peaceful relief on her face. He just has to—
"Sweetheart, can I touch you now?" he asks carefully, quickly adding a reassurance. "It's alright if you'd rather I didn't, I won't if you don't want me to, I just—,"
He cuts himself off this time, or rather she does once more by colliding with his chest. Her arms wrap around his waist, hands clenching in the fabric of his shirt as he encircles her gently with his own arms, breathing out a slow sigh of relief into her hair. They stay that way: Elizabeth breathing in the familiar scent of her husband, her home, mumbling a quiet missed you into his neck; Henry rocking her gently back and forth and gradually reassuring himself of her wellbeing.
When they finally pull away, it's a normal evening. He cooks dinner, something easy on her stomach, he thinks, and they relax in the fulfillment of being home and together and whole. He watches her carefully, though, and it isn't until they're settled in bed, books stowed away for the night and lights extinguished, that he holds her close and decides that she really is alright. She probably, he determines, just needed to expel whatever happened on the trip from her system. Just needed a little catharsis, he thinks to himself as they both drift off.
Madam Secretary Prompt: Elizabeth's current position at the CIA requires her to go undercover sometimes. She's excellent at it, but it takes a lot out of her, and she always comes home and empties her stomach before allowing Henry or the kids to touch her.