Elizabeth can't breathe. It hasn't happened in so long, not being able to breathe. She wasn't even near the explosion. It was just a video. But she found herself standing and pacing the Situation Room. Very Presidential, Bess, she had thought. But she needed to move. It was the only thing that kept her present enough to be a good Commander in Chief. She made absolute and immediate decisions with power and grace. Fourteen American diplomats are dead. But in her fashion, she refused to go just as low. However, it was harder than she'd ever admit. She can have a vengeful streak, a hawkish one she has to suppress.
She has no choice. Not really. She has to sit and make nice with the Prime Minister of a nation whose government is in turmoil.
Bess had to be stoic. She had to be calm. She had to be the President of the World's last true superpower. Forgiving, graceful, paternal. Never maternal. There's a difference. A difference is that it took her most of her time as Secretary of State to find and execute. But now, three years into her Presidency, she has it down. The trick is to not look at it like a role. You can't play a part. You can't act. If you do, your eyes will give it away. No, Bess knows, if you want to play a part, you have to live it. And she has learned how to be America's Father.
But the role doesn't stop at the borders of her country. No, not at all. Her country is the leader of the Free World. This responsibility doesn't end at the Rio Grande, the Atlantic Ocean, the Pacific Ocean, or the Arctic, which is why it's so inconvenient that the explosion is making breathing hard. It's making her chest heavy. It's making her heart beat erratically and her palms sweat.
She doesn't have time for panic attacks. She hasn't had one in almost five years, not since her first campaign trip. And that was a mix of good nerves and stress, not her PTSD. This is PTSD.
Which is why she couldn't get out of there fast enough. She tried a walk. A small one to the Oval. And nothing. So she stood out on the Colonnade. And that didn't work either. So she excused herself to the residence.
Blake had given her a subtle look of understanding and said he would push the rest of her schedule back by a half hour.
Thirty minutes, that's all she has to get it together. It doesn't bode well, considering she's in her bathroom sitting on the floor, the most private place she can be nowadays. Her earbuds play her favorite track of whale sounds, and she's trying to breathe.
Breathe.
The door opens, and her heart skips a beat. She forgot to lock the door.
"Babe?"
Elizabeth lets out a shaky breath, "Henry?" How did he know?
"Blake said you needed me." He says as if he read her mind. She feels him more than she sees him when he steps into the bathroom.
He takes her in, her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes closed, headphones, and she looks pale.
"Bad one." It's a statement, not a question. She can tell in her haze that he hadn't meant to say it out loud. For a moment, she thinks she should show the American people this and willingly lose her reelection. This doesn't feel strong or Presidential. It's not the face of the leader of the Free World.
"What can I do?" He asks, his voice low, comforting.
Elizabeth opens her eyes, pulls out her headphones, and looks up at her husband.
"They killed them," she says, completely ignoring his question. They both know there is nothing he can do but be present for her. And he always is, and she always is for him. That's how their marriage works. Life may be hard sometimes, but being a person can be hard. Being wrong can be hard. Being vulnerable can be hard. But their marriage makes those things easier. Being married to each other is not hard for them.
"I know."
"I can't." She starts and shakes her head. She doesn't need to finish her sentence. Henry knows what she can't do. She can't do anything. "They killed Fred. And that was my fault." She says, and he knows they are no longer talking about current events, not the brand new consulate bombing. But about her short time in Iran.
"Babe," Henry breathes. She doesn't talk about Iran often, and he never pushes. He knows she'll open up to him in her own time and in her own way. "It wasn't your fault." He reminds her as he does every time.
"It was. He died because I decided to go to Iran. And Abdul... I couldn't protect him." She shakes her head, and Henry doesn't miss the tears in her eyes.
"Fred does doing his job. He died protecting you because that was his job. And it is not on you that those monsters murdered Abdul's father in front of him. That's on them. Not you." He says softly. He knows the tone to use with her when she's like this.
"It feels like it's on me." She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the memories of the gunshots and Abdul's screaming.
"I know." He whispers.
"And now fourteen Americans are dead. Fourteen!" She exclaims, firey and pissed. She's completely unfiltered. He loves their time in their main suite. It's the only time they get to be Henry and Elizabeth anymore. She is the President of the United States, but to him, she's his Elizabeth. The mother of his children. The woman who held him when the grief of his father's suicide finally hit him the night he finished his V8 engine with his own son. The woman who, for many reasons, he loves with his whole heart and soul. And he'd follow her anywhere, and he has. All the way to an extremely public life. All the way to the White House.
"Your response was measured." He compliments. And it was.
"It felt hollow." She admits.
"No one knew that." He says gently, leaning his head against the wall next to hers.
"No..." She pauses, and he sees her brain thinking, "I get mad when our soldiers die. And I feel guilty as their Commander in Chief... But in a way… Soldiers sign up to die… and I only send our guys to kill the other guys… That's just how it works… But those diplomats didn't sign up to die. They were there working for peace and practicing health diplomacy by vaccinating children. They weren't fighting. They didn't deserve to die. And we did nothing." She spits her last sentence bitterly.
"You didn't do nothing." He reminds her. She ordered three bases destroyed, with no loss of life. Three highly rated military targets, all the while looking calm and composed. "You did what you could."
"It doesn't feel like enough... And that scares the shit out of me." She whispers the last sentence, and her cheeks start to flush with shame. She doesn't like her let it rain fire moments.
"That's okay." He tells her, his hand resting on her knee.
"I should be able to handle these things." She says.
"It's okay to be human, Madam President." He tells her, grabbing her hand, "The source of Justice is not vengeance but charity. St. Bridget of Sweden. You served justice with your response, and that should be enough."
"It should be enough." She says. And it is. She knows it's enough. She doesn't know how to accept that yet. "It has to be enough." She says, but it's not to him. It's to herself. She leans into him and allows him to hold her.
"I love you." He says. Neither of them ever misses the opportunity to voice their love. They've been through too much not to make the most of every moment.
"I love you, too." She breathes.
She can breathe again. Her chest is lighter. Wearing a blazer might be a no-go for the rest of the day, but she can breathe normally.
"You need a vacation." He says with a smile.
"Are you going to get scuba-certified this time?" She says with a small laugh.
"If I must." He jokes, leaning in to kiss her, his lips a whisper against hers.
She smiles, and her heart stops racing, "Thank you." She breathes.
"Anytime."