A/N: Back with the same warnings! Sort of slice of life? If u like it and there's something specific you'd like to see handled in this au, please comment accordingly!
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Six Months After
Elizabeth was getting better. She might not think so, but Henry could tell she was. Her staff saw it too. The kids smiled brighter every day, getting less and less worried about their mom. She was doing better. She was flinching less, smiling, really smiling more, sleeping better. The formula, it seemed, was therapy and time.
When his wife had gone missing last March, all he had wanted, aside from her safe return, was justice. He wanted the men who had taken her to be imprisoned or dead, and he didn't particularly care which. In October, when they'd found her, he'd changed his mind. There was no room for indecision, not after seeing her like that. Not after the FBI had moved aside and he'd held her unconscious body until paramedics arrived, cataloguing the extensive list of visible injuries. If Henry had had his way with those men, they would have been dead, every last one of them.
Some of them are, he knows from bits and pieces of Elizabeth's initial statement to the FBI and from some of the details she shares in the therapy sessions they attend together. But there is one man—though man is the wrong word for what that animal is, Henry thinks privately—that escaped before the standoff, before Elizabeth was cut down from the bindings, before she'd begun to recover.
A week ago her phone had rung and woken them both, his hand dropping to her back as she'd turned to answer it, still mostly asleep. "Yes?" she'd croaked, clearing her throat as the person on the other end spoke. Her posture straightened so suddenly that Henry had forced an eye open just in time to see her swing her legs over the side of the bed and run a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
Now they have him, and Henry…well, Henry doesn't know what to hope for.
He wants justice for his wife, for the things she'd been made to endure, for the struggles that she still faces because of them. He also doesn't want her to have to testify, to have to go through detailed disclosure again in the way he knows she'll need to if they move to trial. He doesn't want Elizabeth to have to see him again in court.
Elizabeth is the strongest person he knows. She can do whatever she puts her mind to, but she shouldn't have to do that.
;
Jason McCord can tell that his mom is getting better. She doesn't pace as much at night anymore, and her smiles seem more genuine. She hugs him and his sisters and their dad and lets them hug her too, and she doesn't curl into herself afterward like it's been too much for her.
Jason doesn't hear his Dad getting up in the middle of the night anymore, creeping from door to window to make sure they are securely locked in, and something else is securely locked out. He'd thought, when that had first started, that it was the sign of his Dad being unable to sleep still, like he had been when Mom had been missing and every night he'd aimlessly walked the floors until it was practically sunrise.
Once, when the screaming had woken him up, he had gone on instinct towards his parent's bedroom door. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the tone of his mom's voice had frozen him to the spot.
"Can you—can you check the locks? What if he comes back and—"
"Elizabeth, he isn't coming back, I promise. I promise you you're safe. Just breathe, okay? I'll check all the locks."
Jason was back in his room before his father's footsteps sounded down the stairs.
He'd noticed it all the time, after that. The rattling of locks and bolts, the extras installed for his mom's peace of mind. But it had been getting better, recently. She'd been getting better. Things had been getting closer to the way they were before.
Maybe Jason had been lulled into complacency, he'll think bitterly later. Nothing had been normal since Virginia, and it never would be again now.
That had struck him suddenly yesterday morning, when he'd jumped the last three steps into the kitchen to find his mom on the floor, backed up against the cabinets and fighting for breath, clutching her phone in shaking hands.
"Mom!" he'd cried, rushing to drop down to his knees beside her. "Mom, what's wrong?"
Her eyes had been wild, panicked.
"Mom?"
On the third try, she'd met his eyes. "Jace—I—I'm sorry. I'm so—I need," she'd gasped for air again, looking terrified. His mom wasn't supposed to look like that, ever. "Need your dad."
He'd nodded frantically. He would have done anything to make that look in her eyes go away, so he'd run to the bottom of the stairs, not caring that his voice cracked awfully as he yelled for his dad.
"Jason, what's wrong?" his dad had asked worriedly as he appeared at the top of the flight.
"Mom—" he'd started, and that was all it had taken for his Dad to come down the stairs faster than his Mom ever would have allowed Jason. Slow down, you'll break something, she'd always chided.
One glance at her still on the floor, still struggling for air, and his father had told him to go upstairs. Not a chance, he'd thought bitterly, and he'd gone up halfway and hovered where they couldn't see him, listening to his dad talk his mom into breathing right again.
It had taken too long.
And then his mom, voice sounding hollow and hoarse—
"He's not taking the plea. I just got the call."
"Elizabeth—"
"I'll have to testify, Henry. The deposition is tomorrow."
;
The next night is hell. Pain and blood and insidious water and violation. The men on her.
Elizabeth didn't go back to sleep afterward. She stayed still, listening to Henry's breathing even back out to deep restfulness as she convinced him that she herself had fallen back to sleep, had simply flailed in the wake of a fading nightmare. She contemplated going downstairs, digging out some files and making a pot of coffee, but the chill in the air and the warmth of the many blankets and Henry's body swayed her. She forced her own body to relax, muscle by muscle, and told herself that a night awake in bed was more restful than a night not in bed at all.
Around dawn she had finally dozed back off only to be woken half an hour later to the blaring of her alarm and an empty bed. Henry had gone for his run, she realized. And now she's gone numbly through her morning routine, trying a freezing shower to wake her up a little but succeeding only in setting herself further on edge. Finally dressed, she makes her way down to the kitchen, longing for a cup of coffee.
And the pot is empty.
Her head throbs in response to the sight and hot tears begin prickling in her eyes. She feels ridiculous.
"Morning, babe, I—" Henry suddenly enters the kitchen fresh from his run. She tries to turn her face away inconspicuously but it's too late. "Hey, what's the matter?"
She waves him off, trying to wipe away the tears she hasn't yet let fall. "Nothing. It's silly," she forces out. He's close now, a hand on her back as his eyes search for hers.
"It's not silly if it's upsetting you," he insists.
"It is. There's no more coffee and I'm crying about it. It's ridiculous."
Henry pulls her into his arms, urging her to lean into him as he shakes his head. "It's not ridiculous. You're exhausted and overwhelmed. Your nerves are totally shot. I'll make another pot, babe."
"I have to go. I'm already late."
Henry resorts to bribery. "I'll get the espresso machine out and make you a latte if you'll push your meetings and take a nap first."
"I can't," Elizabeth whispers pitifully, pulling away from him and replacing the mug she'd fruitlessly grabbed. "The press knows that today's the deposition. If I act any differently or go off schedule it'll be a thing," she reminds him, turning back to her husband, arms crossed protectively over her chest even as she allows him to step nearer again.
"So let it be a thing," he murmurs simply, tucking a loose strand back behind her ear. "It deserves to be a thing. I just want you to be well-rested, babe."
She glances up at him, feeling her lip tremble traitorously. Her husband is too persuasive for his own good. "I'm so tired." Elizabeth says it entirely without meaning to, words slipping out, an unrestrained admission as her voice cracks. She's not surprised when she finds herself tugged back against his chest, encircled in his arms.
"I know." And he does know, she realizes. The anticipation of this trial and all that it entails hasn't been easy on him either. Elizabeth throws her poor husband a bone and doesn't protest when he guides her to sit at the counter and starts another pot of coffee. She knows him, and she knows how desperately he wants to help, so she lets him. It's the very least she can do.
;
She sniffs and fiddles with her rings as she sips her coffee on the barstool. There are dark circles beneath her eyes that he imagines are a combination of her sleepless night—though she had tried and failed to fool him into believing it was restful for her— and the series of long days at State prior. The treaty she's pursuing is nearly signed, she tells him, but the press has been abuzz with speculation, all eyes on her. While the cameras show his wife polished and poised, behind the scenes she has been jumpy and struggling to eat. Her collar bone protrudes through her blouse at this angle. She's always lost weight too easily, and she still hasn't fully gained back the amount that had been stolen from her last year. There's no room for her to be skipping meals.
"Let me make you an omelette before you go."
"I'm not really hungry," she murmurs, not meeting his gaze.
"Hm," he answers playfully, kissing her cheek in hopes of lifting her spirits a little, "don't really care. You gotta eat, babe."
She sighs, patting his arm as she stands. Henry's heart sinks as she grabs her briefcase and travel mug, turning to him with an apologetic smile. "Afterwards, okay?" she murmurs, biting her lip. "I promise I will. I just—I have no desire to throw up in the bowels of the DA's office."
Elizabeth is going for humor, but the real possibility behind it makes his chest hurt. "Okay," he agrees softly, catching her hands. "But please take it easy this morning. I'll see you at ten."
She gives him a slightly watery smile. "You know you don't have to come, honey. That was a one off, the first time. They'll make you wait outside anyway."
Neither of them mention that the FBI agents conducting the original interview had allowed said one-off only because she'd been fresh out of the hospital, deeply traumatized and prone to panic the moment she was left alone with strangers.
"I know," he answers with a half-smile of his own. "But I'll use any excuse to see you, you know that. Our children tell me I have an addiction."
Her laugh is the best thing he hears all morning.
;
The basement hallway that they've chosen to subvert the chatter of the press is cold and impersonal, and she shivers even as Henry squeezes her hand. They've agreed to let him come this far and she's grateful.
"I'll be right outside if you want me." And then he lowers his voice and dips closer to her ear, murmuring, "remember, you don't have to stay if it's too much. Anytime you need to stop, you can."
Elizabeth knows that, though she can't say the reminder goes amiss. She nods.
"Breathe. You've got this."
Elizabeth looks into familiar hazel eyes, and she believes it.
;
"If you'd like to take a break at any time, Madam Secretary, just let us know," the female attorney whose name she's already forgotten assures her. The red light on the camera in the corner comes on, and it begins.
She keeps her voice and breathing even and her mind clear as they cover everything she remembers from abduction onwards. The beginning is fuzzy, blurred by concussion and chloroform. Everything after is slightly clearer, but the exact order of events is difficult to recall. It's much of the same: the waterboarding, the threats, the hanging by her wrists. The horrible parts, the parts that she can still barely talk about with Henry or Dr. Sherman, during which she fights hard to maintain eye contact, refusing to let them see that she's still battling the shame of it. She tells them every detail of overheard conversations that she can remember. She tells them the gruesome aftermath of every escape attempt.
Wading through every memorable detail of seven long months takes almost five hours, according to her watch. Elizabeth doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate until they get to the end.
"Do you have any memory of the moments leading up to the death of Robert Fowler, one of your captors, Madam Secretary?"
Just be honest.
"That's where things become more difficult for me to recall with any clarity," she replies with a wry smile.
"Just tell us whatever you can," the male attorney says amiably.
She remembers bits and pieces of the end. Being put into a headlock, the sharp edge of a blade. Yelling. Blood splattering across her face. Pain. Frantic footsteps, and what she now believes to have been her husband's terrified voice.
It's a memory she hasn't unpacked yet in the way she probably should have.
"I remember hearing a voice that I assume in hindsight belonged to an FBI agent. He yelled at the man—Robert, you said—to drop the knife. After that it's a blur. I think I heard a gunshot, and then I was on the ground."
"Now, your memories of Robert prior to this: was he consistently a part of the interactions you had with your captors?"
"Yes, he was." Elizabeth realizes abruptly that her chest is tightening, and must have been for some time.
"And one Anthony Fowler, the man going on trial?"
Elizabeth clears her throat, forcing her voice to remain even. "Was he regularly a part of the interactions, you mean? Yes, I would call him the leader."
"Alright," the male attorney says, making a note, "and Madam Secretary, how did you differentiate between your captors?"
"Meaning?" she asks pointedly, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest.
The man flushes. "You are, uh, still partially blind in your left eye, yes?"
"I am."
"And you were almost completely blind at the time of your rescue?"
"That's correct."
"So how could you tell which man did what, said what? How could you tell which of the men was the leader?"
"I didn't lose my vision from infection until much later in my time in captivity. I had been watching them interact with one another and me for months. By the time my sight became significantly impaired, I was able to easily distinguish between their voices and their hands."
"That's great. That's something the Defence is really going to dwell on, so you're aware. And just to clarify, Anthony Fowler was not present at the time of your rescue?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Wouldn't you know for certain, Madam Secretary?" the woman interjects.
"As I said, probably somewhere around the last twenty-four hours of my captivity are difficult for me to recall. I had sustained another severe concussion and was severely dehydrated and in a fair amount of pain. I would imagine that's a question better posed to the FBI agents involved."
"And you don't…" The man is saying something, but she can't hear his words over the rushing of blood in her ears. Her chest is uncomfortably tight now and with every passing second it becomes harder to draw breath.
"I've told you everything I remember. I think we're finished here."
"If you'll give us a few more moments of your time, ma'am, so we can establish Fowler's movements in the last day before your rescue—"
She holds up her hand. "I've done my best to help you fill in those gaps, but I'm afraid I won't be of much more help to you."
"Madam Secretary, if you'll just finish—" the man tries, but she interrupts him.
"I've said no. I need to speak with my husband," she announces bluntly.
To her credit, the woman stands, putting a hand on her colleague's shoulder. "Yes ma'am. We'll send him in."
"No, that's alright." She can't be in this tiny windowless room anymore. "I'll step out."
She fumbles with the door handle, suddenly lightheaded, and stumbles into the hall, where Henry shoots up from his rickety plastic chair. He opens his mouth to speak, opens his arms to reach for her, but she shakes her head minutely. He obediently drops his hands to his sides as the lawyers trail out behind her.
"Madam Secretary, Dr. McCord," they nod politely. "If you remember anything else, any details—"
"I'll let you know."
And then they're gone, and she's hugging Henry like her life depends on how tightly she can grip him. He slips a hand beneath her blazer and rubs slow circles on her back, giving her a moment of quiet before in a low voice, "you okay?"
Elizabeth takes stock and realizes that she is. The tightness in her chest has eased a little with every stroke of his hand and every second of not being asked to remember, and she can breathe again. She nods, pulling back to look at him. "I am. Let's get out of here."
They head back to the stairs, nodding politely at the security guard stationed at the end of the hall.
"Want to tell me how it went?" Henry asks tentatively.
She shrugs, giving him a small smile. "As well as can be expected. I got through most of it okay. The trial might be kind of a problem, on the other hand."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he says firmly. "You know, I could go ahead and come home with you now if you want."
She smiles again to reassure him, bracing to deliver the news he's going to hate. "I'm fine. Go back to work, babe."
He frowns as they step out into the sunshine, finally. "Are you sure? I can cancel my afternoon classes. It's no problem."
"And deprive your students of a religious lecture for their Friday evening? Never," and she relishes in his grin. "Besides, there's a lot of paperwork involved in a treaty-signing, honey. I have to head back to the office for a few hours," she says, glancing at the motorcade and hoping that her gentle tease will successfully offset her need to go back to work.
It does not.
"Elizabeth—"
She sighs at the tone and stops him before he starts. "I know, but it's my job Henry, and this is important. I can't just—"
"You didn't let me finish," he interjects, holding a finger up to stop her, "you didn't sleep last night. Promise me you'll try to be home early? As in six o'clock early, not ten pm, the State Department's definition of early?"
Relieved, she nods, squeezes his hand in reassurance. "I promise I'll do my best, babe. I don't want to stay late tonight any more than you want me to, I swear." She goes to kiss him goodbye, but he stops her.
"Not finished. Promise me you'll call if you start to feel anxious."
"Henry, I'm fine," she whispers emphatically.
He only nods, expression of concern unwavering. "Right now you are, I believe you. But you've just had to relive a lot, and it's going to bring things back to the forefront of your mind again. Promise me you'll call me if you need me."
Elizabeth relents, smoothing two fingers across the pinch in his brow. "I promise."
"Even if you know I'm in the middle of teaching, you'll call me?"
"I promise."
"Promise me you'll eat a late lunch."
"I promise. Blake wouldn't have it any other way," she murmurs. "Want me to redo my wedding vows while you're on this streak of binding oaths?"
She kisses him goodbye chastely, wary of how thrilled civilians and press alike are to point a camera at them these days, and tells him she loves him. She gets in the motorcade and tells herself that she can make it through the rest of her day.
;
Elizabeth was telling the truth when she said she doesn't remember the end.
The first continuous and completely coherent memory she has of after is Henry putting her in the bathtub to alleviate the aches, of him calming her down and assuring her that it was over. That's the first thing she knows, when retracing from the present, is completely intact in her head.
The things that came before are spotty. There was captivity and horror and then a final blow to the head and then Henry and home and safety. Things happened in the middle, but Elizabeth doesn't remember.
She says she doesn't remember, and it's the truth, but not entirely. There are staccato flashes of things in her mind sometimes, coming and going and not making much sense.
"Drop the knife!" She doesn't recognize the voice.
Elizabeth wants the man to let go of her. She hurts all over, she just wants to lay down. There's something sharp against her throat, but her wrists are still tied unforgivingly above her head and there's nothing she can do.
"Drop it now or we shoot!"
Through the fog of everything she recognizes that the instruction comes from somewhere in front of her, and the man holding onto her waist is behind her. What does she have to lose? Elizabeth lets her knees buckle, all of her weight now being born by her wrists, and swings back as hard as she can. A shot fires. Warm, wet liquid splatters across her face and even in her haze it is unmistakable. She wants to be sick and she also wants to cry with relief.
Her body spins with remaining momentum and she can't get her feet back under her and it hurts, everything hurts and there are suddenly shouts and hands and sirens and—
"Elizabeth, I'm here. We've got you," a different voice cries.
She hears herself cry out in pain as she's held up so her arms can be released, muscles protesting the sudden change. Then she's finally lying down. Small mercies.
"Her breathing isn't right. Her lungs, something's wrong!"
"Ambulance is two minutes out."
"Elizabeth, it's me. Stay with me, babe. It's gonna be okay now. You're safe. Stay awake, hey, please stay with me. Please, Elizabeth!"
The voice sounds distraught and she wants to comply with it so that it won't hurt her but she can't. She is so tired.
The last thing she hears before it all fades to nothingness is the voice dropping to a whisper.
"Elizabeth, I love you."
The whole thing was probably three minutes, but in her memory it is an eternity. Elizabeth doesn't know how much of it is accurate, either, and she doesn't want to ask Henry. If the memory is intact, Henry had thought she was going to die when they'd found her. It'd been that bad. She'd known it was bad, of course, but for her hopeful until the end husband to use that tone…the scene must have been unspeakable.
And he hasn't spoken of it, so neither has Elizabeth.
The next flash of memory is in what she thinks was the hospital.
Awareness comes slowly. Her throat feels raw and everything is fuzzy around her, only fragments of light and an impression of bright white permeating the fog.
There's a hand feeling around her ribs. It's being gentle but it's on her bare skin and she's exposed, she's exposed and they'll hurt her and she can't see what they're trying to do and—
"No!" she gasps out. She tries to shove the person away but movement makes the pain unbearable.
"Elizabeth, my name is Dr. Cahill. You're safe now, you're in the hospital."
"Stop it! Don't touch me!" she shrieks.
"Get the husband. He's in the hall. Elizabeth, can you hear me?"
The pain would be blinding if she weren't already nearly blind. Every breath she draws makes her want to never breathe again.
"I need you to calm down, Elizabeth."
"What's wrong with her? What's happening?"
She thinks she should hate that there's suddenly a man's voice involved. It should be making things worse. What if he wants to hurt her like the rest of them had? She can't quite pinpoint why, then, her heart rate slows down just a tad at the sound of the voice. Why does it make her feel just a tiny bit safer? Why does she instinctively know that despite its belonging to a man, it won't hurt her? She can't remember, which only makes it worse.
"Dr. McCord, your wife is still having some trouble breathing. We believe she has pleuritis, but we also need her to be still so that we can rule out a belatedly collapsing lung. I'm hoping a familiar voice—"
"Elizabeth, it's me. You're safe now, babe."
She hears the horrible noise she makes, only knows it's her making it because it hurts her throat and makes breathing even harder.
"I know. I know you're scared and it hurts, but they need you to stay still for just a minute, okay?"
Elizabeth tries, uses the little control she has over her body to stop writhing, but as soon as she does the hand returns. It isn't familiar, isn't the bigger, warmer hand that she's nearly forgotten but once associated with safety, with gentleness.
"Please don't touch me. Please!" Maybe if she asks nicely and doesn't fight, they'll leave her alone. It's a woman's hand, she recognizes vaguely. Maybe she'll understand.
"I'm so sorry, baby," and the male voice seems to be near tears again, "they have to. They have to make sure it hasn't punctured your lung. I'm so sorry. It'll be over soon."
That's what they all say, she remembers thinking. It's never over.
The next time Elizabeth wakes she feels her body flail a little, the movement out of her control, and pain sears through her and steals her breath.
She tries to stay very still, fein sleep, because the surface beneath her feels foreign and she doesn't know where she is and that only ratchets her constant low levels of terror incrementally higher.
The act doesn't seem to have worked.
"Hey, honey. That's good, just stay still. Are you in pain?"
She feels her brow furrow. There's something familiar about this. It's happened before, she thinks, and she wasn't hurt for it, and this knowledge is all that keeps her from hysteria now.
She gets a faint whiff of cologne, painfully familiar, and her muscles relax a tiny bit on instinct. She takes a shot in the dark. "Henry?" Her own voice doesn't sound at all like she remembers it.
"Yeah, sweetheart, I'm here. I'm right here." How can that be right? Something gentle and warm and large is holding her hand again, and she thinks maybe this should trouble her, but oddly enough she likes it. The phantom Henry's tone shifts into one she can tell even now isn't directed at her. "Can she have some water?"
"Not quite yet, Dr. McCord. We haven't been able to swab her mouth and she shouldn't drink anything until we do."
The strange voice makes her wince, and she wants to pull away from the possibility of another stranger touching her but even the thought of movement is excruciating, and she doesn't mind the hand holding hers.
And as if its owner has read her mind—"What hurts?"
She takes stock. "My chest," she whispers, hoping fervently that she was right and this person is—was?—her husband, that he's not lying to her, that he won't hurt her or use the information about where she's in pain to worsen it. "Ribs. Eyes. Wrists."
"Okay, baby. Thank you for telling me. Do you know where you are?"
Elizabeth doesn't, and she was hoping not to be reminded of that. She gives a hesitant shake of her head, trying to take the shallow breaths she knows will relieve the pain enough for her to bear it. "Hurts so bad," she whispers.
"I know. I'm so sorry. They're going to start you on a higher dosage for the pain really soon, okay? It'll be better soon."
Elizabeth doesn't know how he could be here, or where 'here' even is, but she likes his voice even if she doesn't believe his words. It won't be better soon; experience has taught her that much. She feels desperate and raw, and it really does hurt so severely, and the bustle in the background and the beeping noises and everything else is just too much, and she feels herself forming words without thinking them through.
"What did you say, babe? You want what?"
She doesn't want to repeat it. It's too pathetic. She can't stop it. Her mouth moves again of its own accord.
"I want my mom," Elizabeth hears herself whimper, out of control.
There's a little intake of breath, like she's shocked the person who might somehow be Henry. "Oh, baby. Elizabeth, I'm so sorry. I'm right here, okay? You're not going to be alone, and your brother's here. Do you want Will? I can get him for you."
She'll remember afterwards only how badly the next part hurts, how unfamiliar it feels.
Someone is yelling. Lots of someone's are yelling.
"Elizabeth!"
"Code blue. She's seizing!"
The next thing she knows with any clarity at all is finally being home, with Henry lowering her into the bath and helping to calm her down. These scenes come back in fragments later, filling in the blanks when she concentrates hard enough. Sometimes, when she thinks too hard about them, they slip beyond her reach and she wonders if they're even true at all.
;
Elizabeth doesn't need to call Henry that afternoon, but she thinks about doing it anyway as the fragments float through her memory. When the complications at State expand to involve Peru, she takes the briefing and tells her staff to go home for the night and have dinner with their families.
"Madam Secretary—" Blake begins, a disapproving frown on his face.
She smacks him in the arm with a file folder as she passes him on the way back to her office. "I'm going too, Blake. Give me a second, it's only 5:15."
"Dr. McCord—"
"Is not your boss, Blake. That would be me."
"I know, ma'am, but Dr. McCord—" he starts.
"Is worried, I'm aware. Did he enjoy the rundown of the amount of protein in the salad you watched me eat?"
Blake grins sheepishly. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."
"You're forgiven. I know that this has all had its challenges for you as well," Elizabeth admits as she gathers her things together, pausing beside him before she exits her office, "But Blake, I would advise you to remember which one of us will one day write your glowing recommendation letter."
;
Elizabeth enters through the back door—better hidden from waiting cameras— to shouts of "hey Mom!" from the den, and the smile that crosses her face is automatic.
"Hey guys," she greets as she kicks her heels off carelessly and steps into the kitchen, where Henry's creating an excellent smell with the three pots on the stovetop. She pauses and bumps her hip against his. "I hear you're colluding with Blake again."
Henry grins apologetically as he kisses her hello, "And to think I thought he could keep a secret. Will you forgive me if I tell you I'm making spaghetti?"
Elizabeth lights up, examining the contents of the pots more closely. "Always," she murmurs agreeably. He's cooking tomatoes down separately, just like— "My mom's recipe?" she asks quietly, looking up at him sideways.
He nods, pressing another kiss to her temple. "Comfort food," he answers, like the simplest thing in the world is to go out of his way for her like this.
She blinks back the tears she thinks might surface. She doesn't want to cry right now, even for all the right reasons. "Thank you," is her simple murmur.
"Always," he parrots back. "I think the kids are worried," Henry continues quietly, "they've been watching for any news of the deposition, and they asked me if I was lying about twenty times when I said it went okay."
Elizabeth glances back at the low murmur of the news cast and the three heads visible over the back of the sofa. She sighs. "Do you need any help?"
He snorts, implication—when have you ever been helpful in the kitchen, babe?—clear, and she rolls her eyes at him. "I suppose you can chop," he says generously.
She abandons her blazer on the back of a kitchen table chair and takes the knife and onion he offers her. "I'll talk to them. Has it been in the cycle yet?"
"Haven't heard anything except the mentions of it being today."
Elizabeth lets the relief sweep over her. "Good. Daisy said she was doing all she could."
But the timing couldn't be better, she thinks bitterly, because Alison exclaims "turn it up!" and they're off like a shot.
"Today was Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord's deposition for the upcoming trial of Anthony Fowler, one of the men allegedly responsible for her seven month captivity in the cellar of a warehouse just over an hour outside of DC, pictured here."
She whirls around. They've never actually shown the picture of the warehouse before, though she'd seen it during at some point after the FBI interview. Henry's hand finds her elbow, task abandoned.
"Secretary McCord returned to her post at the State Department just a month and a half after she was located and rescued by FBI agents in a standoff that killed three of her captors."
Elizabeth doesn't miss the way her children, fixated on the screen, have scooted closer together.
"She was seen entering the District Attorney's office this morning with her husband, Dr. Henry McCord, to be deposed."
The picture is of poor quality, a cell phone shot of her approaching the side entrance of the building from the motorcade, Henry's hand on the small of her back visible through the circle of DS agents.
"Her office and that of the President are seeking an official seal on the deposition and any testimony Secretary McCord might offer in court. Neither are choosing to comment at this time."
She feels Henry watching her as she watches the television and their children. He clears his throat. "Let's turn that off now, guys."
She catches his eye. I'm fine, she mouths, leaving the onion and the knife and slipping into the den, perching on the arm of the chair beside the sofa. "Guys?" she questions softly.
Stevie flicks the television off, and Ali tries to pretend she's not wiping her eyes. Jason stares straight ahead.
"Is there anything you want to talk to me about?"
There's a long pause.
"We never saw that picture before," Alison says shakily. "Of where you were when you were gone."
"No," Elizabeth agrees, "it was kept out of the media, largely thanks to my staff. But I'm afraid that with the trial coming up, more is going to come out. It's been six months, and the press can claim fair use without seeming too disrespectful."
"But it is disrespectful. To you and to our family!" Stevie exclaims.
Elizabeth nods sympathetically.
"Can't Daisy do anything? Or Uncle Conrad?" Ali asks desperately.
"They're trying, baby. My staff is doing everything they can to protect our privacy, and the White House is too."
The girls nod.
"Jason, do you—" she begins, but it's already boiling over from him.
"You still have to testify," he mutters sullenly. "Against that man, who–who hurt you."
She meets Henry's eye across the room and he moves forward to take the armchair opposite. A silent show of moral support.
Elizabeth reaches out carefully to lay her hand on Jason's, searching for her child's eyes. "I do," she agrees gently.
"Why?" Jason says, voice shooting up. "It's not fair! Why should you have to do that, Mom?"
"Well," she begins, "technically I don't have to. The trial is going to be in federal court because of my position, and I could take executive privilege if I'm subpoenaed. But if I did that, Jace, it would weaken the prosecution's case against that man. And as much as I don't want to go to court and talk about everything that happened, I want that man to go to prison. I want him to face the consequences of taking me away from you guys, and I can help the prosecution give him those consequences by testifying."
"Yeah," he ventures, finally looking up at her, "but what if it all gets out? What if everyone knows? You don't even talk about it to us. Aren't you scared it's gonna be everywhere? The press already won't leave us alone!" he exclaims, seemingly angry at just the thought. He pulls away, gets up and moves to the window, yanking back the curtain to look out from the front of the house. "There are like twenty people with cameras out there already, Mom!"
"I know, baby. And I am a little scared of it all coming out, yes. But I can't let that stand in the way of me doing what I believe is the right thing."
Jason slumps back down onto the sofa, nodding reluctantly.
Elizabeth thinks they're satisfied, but—
"He's right," Stevie says flatly. "You don't even talk about it with us, what makes you think you can say it all in court?"
"Hey—" Henry interjects, frowning, but Elizabeth shakes her head at him, and he falls silent.
"It's a fair question, Stevie. I'm worried about that too. I'll do a lot of trial prep, I'm sure, and fortunately it went okay in the deposition, for the most part, so—"
"You hide everything from us, Mom," Stevie interrupts. "What if it all comes out, and we have to read it online or hear it on the news because you never told us what happened to you? It was bad, and you can't keep that from me, so why don't you just tell me? You both think you're keeping us in the dark," she nearly yells, gesturing to Henry accusingly, "but it's not working! We're not little kids anymore, none of us!"
But the sheen of tears has become obvious in her child's eyes and Elizabeth stands and crosses to her in just a stride, kneeling down in front of her and taking her hands firmly.
"Sweetheart, you are my child. You always will be, even when you're married with kids of your own. It has always been and will always be my job to protect you and your brother and sister. It will always be your Dad's job, too. I'm sorry if any of you have felt infantilized or left out of the loop, but the truth is…well, you know I went through some hard things while I was away, and those things are very hard for me to talk about. I do talk about them, to your Dad, sometimes, and to a therapist, because I want to keep getting better again, for you guys. But I'm not going to talk about them in any detail with you right now."
When Stevie opens her mouth to object, she cuts her off, holding up a hand. "Not because I believe you couldn't handle it, but because you shouldn't have to. I'm going to protect you from what I can. I know I've scared you, and I know things have been difficult lately. You lost a parent for seven months, and since then you've all seen a lot more of your mom freaking out than any kids should ever have to. I'm so sorry for that. I'm working on it, I promise."
"And your Mom is doing really well," Henry reassures, reaching out to put a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder where she's still knelt. "You are, babe," he insists when she shoots him an incredulous look, remembering hyperventilating on the kitchen floor the morning before. "I understand the tendency to worry about her, believe me, guys, but she's okay right now. It's all going to be okay."
There's another pause while she and Henry wait for any more comments.
"At least we're all together," Ali finally murmurs, and Elizabeth meets Henry's eye over her shoulder and smiles.
"Team McCord," Henry confirms.
Jason rolls his eyes. "Corny. At least there's spaghetti."
When they get up to sit down to dinner, Stevie hugs her hard, and she thinks she even catches a mumble of sorry, Mama. In that moment, Elizabeth thinks her husband is right. It is going to be okay.
;
Henry told her later that she was in the hospital for nine days before he and Will talked the doctors into discharging her. In total, she thinks she remembers about an hour of that time. In bed that night, spaghetti eaten and kids in their rooms, Elizabeth rests against his side and suddenly has to ask.
"Henry?"
"Hmm?" He's dozing off.
"I don't remember much of the time in the hospital," she murmurs, watching what she can see of his features in the dark of their bedroom.
Henry blinks once, twice, and his eyes stay open. "I know."
"I think I remember a little of it, though," she says carefully, gauging his reaction.
His voice returns as a whisper, "I figured."
She pushes herself up on one elbow to look down at his face more thoroughly. "What? I never told you."
Henry shrugs. "The doctors told me you'd remember bits and pieces, but probably not much because of the morphine and the shock. I just figured you didn't want to talk about what you did remember."
She settles back into the crook of his shoulder, considering his words before answering, "I just didn't want to make you talk about it. I know it must've been hard for you to see me that way."
"Yeah, it was. But you can talk to me about anything, babe, even if it's hard."
Elizabeth nods against him, her arm across his chest tightening in something of an embrace, and lets them just breathe for a few minutes. "I don't know how accurate my memories are. They're kind of…fragmented, I guess, from the time you found me to when we came home. Dr. Sherman says that if that bothers me, I should ask you, let you tell me if they're intact. And I know I could ask you, but the one thing I really think I remember clearly is how scared you sounded, when you got to me. I don't want to make you relive that."
His body shifts, holding her closer. "If it's bothering you, not knowing, then I want you to ask me."
They fall silent again. She sorts through the bits and pieces, the snapshots she has of that time.
"You were in the room when I was rescued?" she asks tentatively.
"Partially. Right after the FBI fired, they let me come in to help get you down. They told me later that they didn't have a clear shot until you shoved him backwards. Until then they hadn't even known you were conscious. Do you remember that?"
"Not really. A little, maybe. I remember his blood getting on me. Mostly I remember your voice. I was trying to decide if it was really you. You sounded…terrified."
Henry takes a shaky breath, presses a kiss to her hair. "I was. You were soaked with water, covered in blood. Your eyes were nearly swollen shut. The noise you made when we lifted you up to cut the rope… I still hear it in my dreams sometimes. You were in so much pain, and I could tell something was wrong with your breathing. Then you passed out in my lap before the paramedics got there. I've never been so terrified in my life. Terrified doesn't even begin to cover it."
"I'm sorry," she whispers automatically.
"It wasn't—" he begins.
"I know that it wasn't my fault, but I'm still sorry. If the roles had been reversed I would have been distraught, and I hate that you had to go through that. I know you remember a lot more of it than I do, and I hope you're talking to Dr. Sherman about it too." She feels his nod, and almost doesn't ask the next question. "I remember–" she starts tentatively, "I just remember being upset. I thought you were there, but it was hard to tell and I didn't know how you could have been, or where I was."
;
Elizabeth had been upset for almost every second she had been conscious in the hospital, so she is remembering that correctly. It was the strangers, and the blindness, and the concussion, and the pain and just about everything else, too, and it had been incredibly hard to watch.
The worst thing to witness had been the seizure. The heartbreak of hearing his wife plead for her mom and then watching her whole body catch and tighten beneath the blankets, beginning to jerk uncontrollably.
He thinks he shouts her name, starting to close the step between them instinctively, but the room floods with nurses and doctors and he is grabbed, pulled out into the hallway. The last thing he sees before the door closes in his face is Elizabeth being turned onto her side. "What—" he starts, a shaky hand coming to his mouth, another gesturing frantically. "Is she—"
The nurse who must've been tasked with removing him looks sympathetic, her hand on his shoulder before he shrugs it off. "She's having a seizure, Dr. McCord. They're going to do everything they can to find out why."
His knees give way, and the woman catches him by the elbow and guides him to a plastic chair against the wall. She says something about getting him some water and then he is alone under the fluorescents, head in his hands, Elizabeth's body taut and spasming behind his closed eyes and presumably behind the closed door before him, as well.
He'd told her that she was safe, that she was okay.
He's never lied to his wife, until forty minutes ago. She's not safe if she's having a seizure. She's not okay. She's battered and bruised and her lip was split open and the nurses had removed only the necessary grime which left her still filthy, still covered in dirt and blood and innumerable visible injuries. They'd been checking to see if her lung was going to be punctured, which doesn't sound fucking okay to him.
Moreover, she'd been making noises like a frightened animal, begging them not to touch her.
He'd lied to her. It isn't okay—none of it.
Henry has no idea how much time has passed or how many times the voice has ventured "Dr. McCord?" when he first notices it—he only knows that the door between him and his wife is still closed, and no one has emerged to tell him if Elizabeth is any better, any safer. How could she be?
"Henry?" the voice tries.
When he looks up at Blake, spots linger in his vision from pressing into his eye sockets, making it look as if the younger man's face is afflicted with bright green spots. Blake's eyes are wide, and he's holding out a cup of water. "The nurse was trying to give you this."
He takes a sip unthinkingly, but as the liquid slides down his throat he's only reminded of how thirsty Elizabeth had seemed before, how she'd licked her cracked lips almost compulsively, how he hadn't been able to help her because of what the nurse had told him about needing to swab her mouth, how small and frightened she had looked. He doesn't see Blake grab a trash can, but it's thrust into his hands by the time the bile comes up.
"Do you want me to call her brother? I know he's with the kids."
Henry nods. He should have done it sooner, he was supposed to keep Will updated. When he looks back up at Blake as he dials, he notices the bag in his other hand.
"What's—" he gestures weakly, trailing off.
Blake seems to only then remember he's holding it. "Oh," and he winces, "I went by the house, got some things I thought she might want for when she—"
When she can move, breathe, see on her own?
Henry is on his feet the second the door opens, trying to get a glimpse of her past the man in the mask who is looking at him with sympathy, and Jesus he wishes they would stop doing that. He can't tell if it means—
"I need to ask you a few questions, Dr. McCord, but if you'd like to step in and see your wife—"
That's as far as the man gets before he's past him and beside her, taking her hand carefully, mindful of the line running into the back of it, the pulse-ox on her index finger, the splint on her ring finger, the brace around her wrist.
He thinks he may never let go again.
Henry loosens his grip on her in bed to take her hand in his. "You were in a lot of pain, and you were having such a hard time letting the staff touch you," he whispers, "and then you seized. I was—I was so scared that after all of that, after everything you'd survived, you were going to die in that hospital." He brings her hand up to press a kiss against her palm. "There was a time that I thought about whether or not I should call a priest, whether you would want that."
He hears her ponder that for a moment. "I think I'd really just have wanted you. But I would have wanted you and the kids to have a priest, after. Or someone to help talk you through it, at least."
They're comfortable together in the near silence for a few moments, each listening to the reassuring noise of the other breathing.
"There was a point where I really thought I was going to die too, when I was in that cellar," Elizabeth finally whispers. Henry pulls her infinitesimally closer. "I was basically hallucinating by then, but I did think once that if you're right in what you believe, maybe I'd at least get to see you again someday." She shifts slightly, and he knows she's about to try to lighten the mood. They've dealt with so much heaviness lately, and he knows that she feels that that too is her fault. "Think your saints would have let me into Catholic heaven?"
"Babe, if they hadn't, I would've renounced the whole thing in protest and gone wherever you were."
"So sweet," Elizabeth teases, "a man who will risk hellfire for me."
"For you? Anything. You should know that by now, babe—you've seen me eat your cooking."
Her laughter makes the absurdly long day and long year more than worth it.