A/N: I revisited this one, and felt like it needed a part two.
They exit the motorcade for the last time and walk into their farmhouse. She pauses in the front room. She did not prepare for this. For the part where she goes home a loser. When you run for office the only plans you make are the ones that count on a victory. Sure, she planned enough to know she would come back to her farm with Henry. That was always their plan, after she was done in DC they'd come right back here. What she didn't expect, is walking back into this house and it not feeling like home. It only serves as a reminder of her loss, of her failure. She doesn't know if it's fair to herself to think that losing her election makes her a failure, but it at least makes her feel like one. Not just any person can be President of the United States. You have to be special. And she is no longer special. Maybe she was never special. Maybe she just had some delusion of grandeur. The last Secretary of State to become President was James Buchanan. Elizabeth McCord will never be added to that list.
She looks around the farmhouse. A place she knows so well yet feels so alien now. There are still boxes full of items from the brownstone, not unpacked during the campaign. She stops in the office, and unpacks the box labeled "Mom's Awards". It was packed by Allison, judging by the handwriting. Inside, Elizabeth finds an award given out by the National Council of Women's Organizations. Inscribed on the gold plate is, "To Dr. Elizabeth McCord, for her unwavering commitment to women's rights." All she can think about when she looks at it, is the Afghanistan deal, and the little girl she saved, by marrying off. Her friend, who lost her job. Yeah, right Elizabeth McCord, a champion of women's rights. She thinks maybe the only award in this box she deserved was the one she got from the House Speaker, which read, "For her tireless service to the people of our great nation." But even that was tainted.
The farmhouse is cold and empty. Empty of her children. Empty of her spirit. Empty of the hope, that once filled it. When she and Henry bought this place they filled it with hope. Hope that they could save their marriage, hope that they could make things better. They did, and they've kept the strength they gained here. If anyone deserves to have hope restored for them, it's Elizabeth McCord. So why does she feel so deflated? Why do all these years of fighting for what she believed in seem meaningless now? Maybe she'll never know the answer to that question.
"Henry?" she calls out. He steps out of the kitchen and looks at her, the brokenness in her voice sets off alarm bells in his brain.
"Yeah, babe?" he asks.
"I... What am I supposed to do now?" She's asking because she doesn't know. Writing a book, teaching, or giving speeches, all of those things seem so trivial. So worthless. She's been busy for years, she doesn't know how to not be busy.
"Why don't I run you a hot bath? And get you a glass of wine. Then we'll get some sleep and figure the rest out later." He offers. He knows her question was much broader than that. But he doesn't know those answers either, so he offers what he can. A warm bath, and a glass of wine. That will have to do for now.
"Yeah." She agrees, mostly because she knows Henry doesn't know what to do. He's falling back on Aquinas and old wives' tales. Trying to find something that will magically solve the problem. She does the same. They both will try anything, to avoid facing what they actually need to face.
He takes her to the bathroom and runs her a bath. He puts bubbles in it for her and then helps her undress. As she takes her clothes off she feels like she's taking off the armor that protected her through the campaign.
"Get in. Relax." He says, going into the kitchen.
She does as he says. The water is hot, almost scalding hot. It burns her skin as she sits down. She closes her eyes and lets the heat of the water cover her. Slowly she begins to relax. But when she closes her eyes she sees the numbers. So many losses. A lot of them were expected. Some of them were not. But even as she sits there in the warmth of the bath, all she can see is the number of people who said no. The people who chose their want to hate over their want of better policy. Because she had a better policy platform. Better foreign policy, better domestic policy, better economic policy.
But none of that matters.
So she just sits in the tub and her husband hands her a glass of wine. He brings himself a chair and sits with her in the bathroom. They sit there together in silence until the water becomes cold. Until the wine is finished.
"The waters cold." She says, but she can't bring herself to move. To step out of the bathtub. She can't bring herself to dry off and put on pajamas. Instead, she stays where she is, in the cold water. Until her husband realizes she's not moving to get out. He grabs her a towel and helps her get out of the tub.
"Come on, let's get you to bed." He says, helping her up.
"Henry, I'm sorry." She apologizes, she's embarrassed. Embarrassed that she lost, embarrassed that she ran. Embarrassed that she seems to not be taking the loss well. Not that she's ever liked losing, truth be told she's always been a sore loser. But this time, this time she's embarrassed that she's so disappointed in herself.
"Let's go to bed." He tells her again, and he leads her to their bedroom. He lays her in bed and lies next to her.
"I'm fine, you know." She insists.
"You don't have to be fine." He reminds her. She looks at him, he's never said that before. Before she'd always say she was fine and he'd leave it. She used to think it was so they didn't argue. But at this moment she knows why he did it. Because he know she had to be fine, there was no other choice. She doesn't know how not to be fine.
"I don't know how to feel this." She admits, and now she's crying. Not crying, so much as tearing up.
He pulls her close to him and holds her tight. And even though he's not saying a word, she feels comforted by his presence. That after all these years he still loves her. She doesn't know how she got lucky enough to find him. Lucky enough to be loved by him. But she's grateful.
And now more than ever.
"I'm proud of you." He tells her. He is proud, he watched her repeatedly get attacked this whole campaign. He watched as she'd win a debate and then get reamed for being too prepared. He watched as men said they couldn't let a woman have the nuclear codes, and his wife would explain that's not how the US's Nuclear Program works. His wife was the best candidate in that race. The one with the most integrity, with the most hope. The only one that ran for the right reasons.
"Thank you." She says quietly. "I love you." She tells him.
"I love you, too." He kisses the top of her head.
After a while, she falls asleep in his arms. He remains awake, watching her. Her sleep is anything but peaceful. She tosses and turns, every so often her body jerks, causing her to gasp for air. He waits for her to wake up, but she doesn't. Eventually, her breathing slows and she sleeps in peace. Finally, he falls asleep too.
When Henry wakes up the next morning, his wife isn't in the bed with him. He finds her coffee in hand out at the stables. He joins her outside, sitting down beside her.
"You had nightmares last night." He tells her. It's a statement, not an accusation.
"Yeah." She nods.
"What were they about?" He asks.
"Iran." He flinches remembering the bombing that almost took his wife's life. "I don't know why."
"Your body remembers stress." He reminds her. That's part of PTSD, it's a nervous system injury, and similar stress can cause an attack. But his sentence makes her feel more ridiculous about it. Why would losing, be a similar stress? Maybe she's just being hard on herself, she usually is these days.
"Yeah. I guess." She says, her voice flat. Henry wraps his arm around her shoulders.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks.
"Not Iran, no. I just want to take care of my horses." She says, looking into the stable that only houses two horses now. She's never been able to replace Buttercup. His nameplate is still nailed to the wall by his stall.
"Do you want to talk about the election?" He prompts. His worse fear is her shutting down. It's her not being able to pull herself back up from this loss.
"Nope." She says without hesitation. "Well, maybe. What's the news saying today?"
"Depends on the channel. CNN and MSNBC are talking about how you won by 2% of the popular vote, and wanting to get rid of the Electoral College. And Fox News is being meaner than ever, the United States was saved from your globalist agenda." He explains. Sometimes he wonders if she realizes the amount of news notifications he has to have turned on, just so she doesn't have to read anything about herself.
"Is that all?" She asks because his voice got high toward the end, and she knows Fox News is saying a lot more than he said.
"No, um Tucker Carlson and Marty Hawk are trending for their reaction to your loss. There were a lot of sexist and misogynistic comments made." He confesses, his voice low.
"Like what?" She asks.
"They called you an elitist, who was only appointed by the Dalton administration for how you looked in a skirt. And that they would rather have a president that could shoot a gun, and that you didn't deserve to be in office." He says, the memories still fresh.
"I can shoot a gun" She defends. He notices that she ignores the sexism part. Because she doesn't like to go there. She doesn't like that people define her abilities by her gender and its traditional roles.
"Yes, you can." He agrees.
"Yeah. I was raised in the American South. I was in the CIA for 20 years. I spent some time in Iraq. Do they think I walked through war-torn Baghdad without an M16?" She says defensively.
"I don't know," Henry says. He wants to tell her that maybe they do, but he's afraid she'll ask for the details. The truth is, he doesn't know either.
"The foreign policy hawks are probably happy I lost too, aren't they? They were afraid I'd demilitarize." She says. She sounds sad. Henry thought she might be angry, but she's not.
"They won't be happy until we have another war to fight." Henry reminds her.
"I just Henry. I don't know what to do next. I don't know how to go from seventy-hour work weeks to having nothing to do." She says with a sigh.
Henry looks at her and thinks about how much he loves this woman. He's never seen anyone work harder or put more effort into their job than she does. He thinks about telling her that she did once when she left the CIA, but then again, their kids were still kids then, and being a parent to them was a job and not just Sunday dinners and pep talks like it is now. He decides against sharing his thoughts because he realizes they may not be relevant.
"I don't know what to tell you, honey." He says. This isn't something he can fix for her. He can't make everything better.
"I just feel like I failed." She says, turning her head away from him to stare at the ground. Her tone is morose and defeated.
"You didn't. You ran a good campaign, you fought hard, and people were listening to you." Henry argues.
"I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't win. I couldn't save this country from the lunatics like Calister and Barker. It's like we make all of these promises. I made all of these promises to people. Like ESI and healthcare and Gun Control. And I got people to hope for something and then I couldn't win. I disappointed everyone, me included." She says, a tear rolling down her cheek.
"You didn't disappoint me. I have never been proud to be your husband. I watched you take attack after attack. I watched you win debates and have people complain that you were too prepared. I have seen people report on all of your mistakes without mentioning any of your wins. You have taken all of it with grace. A grace I'm not sure anyone else would be capable of. You've had to overcome a lot of obstacles to get where you are, and I am so damn proud of you." He tells her.
She looks up at him and gives him a small smile. She leans in and gives him a peck on the lips. "Thank you. For being my rock." She says.
"I will always be your rock." He tells her.
He pulls her into his arms. He holds her tight. He strokes her back and kisses the top of her head.
"I'm so tired." She admits. Her nightmare from getting any useful sleep.
"Let's go take a nap together," Henry suggests.
"Okay." She agrees.
They lay down side by side in their bed. Henry puts his arm around her, and she snuggles in close. It feels good to hold her. He is the only person in the world who holds the privilege of holding her.
He closes his eyes as the sunlight streams through their window. He sleeps with his arm over her. What happens tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, neither of them knows. But she knows Henry isn't going anywhere. She knows that he will hold her up and help her remember that life can be fun. He will help her have fun again, and maybe starting retirement this early, won't be that bad. Because she'll be with him.