Note: Based on the Tumblr prompt request: "Don't touch me."
in the dark
"Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out?"
Elizabeth's voice cuts like a shiver through the dark, and Henry jumps.
He turns, heart thundering, and finds her sitting in the armchair in the corner of the study. The set of her jaw is pure anger, but her eyes are glossy and rimmed red.
His whole body sinks, the pretence he's been clinging to no more than an inflatable ring that the look she's giving him has just punctured.
She knows.
She pushes herself up from the chair; draws herself as tall as she can; stares him down.
"There was a call from a Wendy Peterson…" she says.
(And this is precisely what he didn't want to happen. This is precisely why he told Wendy three times—three times!—not to call him on the home number.)
"She told me everything."
"Elizabeth…" he begins, voice gentle, full of pity. With arms ready to catch her, he steps forwards. "I'm sor—"
But she throws her hands up like a shield, and shies away from him. "Don't touch me!"
He stops. His heart smarts, trapped in a snare of his own making, and his hands fall empty at his sides.
The silence that fills the study is as thick as night.
It lasts longer than an Arctic winter.
Elizabeth is the one to finally break their stare.
With head bowed, she slips past him, through to the entrance hall, then trudges up the staircase. Each clomp of her shoes on the steps is like a nail in a coffin.
/
The next morning, Elizabeth snatches away his plate of white toast with butter and marmalade, and sets a bowl of muesli topped with goji berries in front of him.
"Eat this."
He stares at it.
The milk doesn't smell like milk.
But he does as she says, and even though the goji berries sting his tongue and stick to his teeth and the rolled oats taste more like flaked cardboard, he doesn't grumble or grimace.
When she's watched him force down the last mouthful, she takes the bowl and carries it to the sink.
"Get dressed," she says, her back to him. "You have a doctor's appointment."
/
The doctor reads through the notes and examines the scans, then sets the file down on her desk and folds shut the cover.
With elbows resting against the edge of the desk, hands clasped over the folder, she looks from Elizabeth to Henry, from Henry to Elizabeth. The swing of her gaze is a metronome, keeping her at a steady pace as she talks them through the diagnosis and prognosis.
Elizabeth listens intently, her expression neutral and unchanging as she absorbs every last word.
When the doctor has finished, Elizabeth offers the woman an empty smile, thanks her for her time, then adds, "…but we're going to need a second opinion."
Technically this is the fourth opinion, but it'll take another six doctors telling them exactly the same thing for Elizabeth to stop shuttling him from office to office.
And when she does, he'll come to miss their outings. Each trip might have been conducted in silence, and being given the same news over and over was nothing short of depressing, but at least they were together.
/
Elizabeth takes up residence in the State Department.
News footage of her speeches shows her looking pallid and drawn. It's enough for some media outlets to speculate she may be sick, and people flock to Twitter to either protest the blatant sexism of the comments or express their hopes that whatever she's got is terminal.
It seems everyone is egregiously outraged or a troll.
Henry packs changes of clothes, which Blake collects and delivers; he bakes chocolate and cherry muffins, which Blake boxes up and says are from a coffeehouse; he continues forcing down bowls of muesli and goji berries (even uses the non-milk milk he finds in the refrigerator).
It doesn't change anything, but it makes him feel better to do something for her.
/
Henry is sitting at his desk in the study, reading through the pages he drafted that afternoon. Who knows if he'll get the chance to finish this book, but working on it gives structure to his day and keeps his mind busy and he likes the idea of leaving a legacy, however slight.
Night has fallen, and the amber haze of the streetlights sifts through the net curtains to mingle with the desk lamp's yellow-white glow.
The front door opens with a snick, and his gaze darts to it. He expects to see Stevie or Alison, but when she steps inside, his heart flips and its beat quickens.
Elizabeth's shoulders sag beneath her trench coat, making her look weary and defeated. She drops her purse to the floor at the foot of the console table, toes off her shoes and leaves them in a toppled heap next to the bag, then pads through the open doorway into the study.
She heads straight for Henry, and he barely has time to process the fact that she's here, home at last, let alone pivot his chair to face her, before she crumples into his lap.
She wraps her arms around him, and clings to him so tight that not even a shadow can come between them.
"We had a deal," she says, her voice thick and damp. "We agreed I'd be the one to go first."
He rubs her back—a slow, soothing circle, around and around and around—and he soaks up her warmth.
"I know," he says. "And I'm sorry."
If he could change things—if he could keep their deal—he would.
"What are we going to do?" she says.
But what can they do? Ten doctors have told them they're out of options.
His hand against her shoulder blades stills, and he eases back in his seat, enough to look her in the eye.
"We make a new deal," he says. "I promise I'll hold on for as long as I can, and then, when the time comes, you promise you'll let me go."