AN: Even the Secretary of State has stomach issues?... Right? Her diet can be blamed.

He's used to letting himself in their house now. He'd only regretted walking through their front door unannounced once— Henry had her perched on the kitchen counter, him between her legs. But that was one time, and today, he strides through to the kitchen certain he wouldn't interrupt anything more than PG.

"Morning," he says, and although he can feel the ache in his muscles from the limited hours of sleep he'd been afforded this week, his voice was chirpy.

Henry looks up over the paper. "The motorcade picked you up today?"

He hums. "Matt was tired of being hassled by Russell Jackson." He takes the seat adjacent to him at the kitchen table. "He insisted that I ride with them today," he explains.

"Sounds fun," he murmurs as his gaze drifts back down to the story below the fold.

"She still feeling bad?" He asks as he straightens out the placemat in front of him.

"She's been carbing up like a linebacker before a big game." He shrugs. "I don't know what she expected."

His eyebrows raise. "Maybe she's finally learned her lesson."

There are footsteps on the stairs.

Henry laughs. "I've been saying that for the past twenty years."

There's a huff and then a clamor of heels on wood— his eyes wander over, and he can tell by the way her nose is scrunched up in pain that today was going to go no better than yesterday. In fact, this morning, she's even holding her side.

"Feel any better babe?"

"No," she grumbles.

"Well—" Henry sighs as he drops the newspaper to the table.

"Henry," she complains, drawing out the last syllable of his name. "My tummy hurts," she whines, still holding her side. And it looks like she's about ready to stomp her foot.

"You sound like a five-year-old."

"She is a five-year-old," he comments. "And that's not your stomach you're holding that's your intestines," he points out.

She frowns. "I'm backed up to my intestines," she mumbles.

"That's it," he stands. "I'm scheduling you an appointment."

Her hand falls away from her side. "No, no," she waves off.

"Elizabeth," Henry warns.

His phone vibrates against his chest, but he chooses to ignore it.

"I'm fine," she says, moving to the island.

He follows.

"A few more days of this, and you could be looking at a bowel obstruction," Henry says.

Deep down he knows it's a joke, a jab at her, but somehow his mind doesn't like the thought of her having to undergo surgery. An even more irritated Elizabeth McCord came with hospitals. An even more determined woman came with doctors. Overtime, overtime and more overtime came along with surgery. And even less sleep.

His hands grip the edge of the counter.

"Look at him Elizabeth," he hears. "You're giving Blake an ulcer."

When he shakes himself out of it, he reaches out for the travel mug Henry had poured for her, and screws on the lid— decaf this week. And if she was being deprived of caffeine, that meant the entire seventh floor, including himself, was being deprived of caffeine.

"I— I'm taking medication this afternoon so hopefully by the time I get home…" She makes a motion with her hands that he wished he didn't understand.

"I think we're past that babe."

His cell phone buzzes again, and this time he slips it out from the pocket it's tucked inside of, and— "And Russell Jackson is now using his threatening voice." He reads over the message once more. "Or at least, I think. It's hard to tell over text."

She huffs. "Fine." She turns and meets his eyes. "Let's go."

"Love you," Henry mutters.

"Bye. Love you," she mumbles.

He holds up the mug of coffee, and she takes it from his hand as she brushes past him.

"Ah," he calls after her.

She throws a look his way, and it's a not too happy one.

"The report I sent home with you last night?" He asks.

When she frowns he has a feeling she's lost it. It wouldn't be the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

"The office," Henry says.

He raises a brow, questioning.

She shrugs her lips before turning back and passing into the dining room.

He watches as she goes, and when she's through to the living room— "I scheduled her with Doctor Poncha at one," he tells Henry.

He chuckles. "Good luck getting her there," he says as he lifts his mug to his lips.

"I am fully prepared to use physical force," he says taking a step backward towards the doorway.

"Well—"

"I'm not going." Her voice is a bit faint from being a few rooms over, but her attitude is loud and clear.

"You wanna bet?" He calls back. "Bye, Henry," he mumbles.

She's already waiting by the door, arms crossed over her chest, packet in hand when he makes it to the entryway.

He ignores her pout, reaches around her, and grabs her coat off the rack.

He shakes it, urging out the wrinkles, and holds it out.

"You know what they'll do," she whines.

"I do," he says. He gives a smile. "But you're going."

She holds his stare for a moment, almost challenging him in a way, but when he doesn't back down, when he doesn't give in— "Fine," she grumbles as she trades him report for coat.