A/N: Hello! It's been a little while since I updated this story, but I'd been writing another story called "The Professors" if you'd like to give it a read, too. That one is set pre MSec as well during their time on the horse farm while they're teaching at UVA. It's kinda cute, if I'm being honest. A little fluffier than this one.
I have a future chapter written for this, though, and it's angsty and ugh and I love it. But this chapter is the opposite, and I love it, too. I love everything basically.
I love you all for reading and reviewing and being so supportive, too.
Hope you enjoy!
(as a side side note, has anyone ever listened to David Duchovny's "Miss Subways" read by Duchovny and Tea Leoni? I read/listened to it the other day and it was so good. I just needed to nerd out for a moment about it!)
January 19, 1989 | Henry
Losing John as a half-friend bummed Henry out more than it should have, and he realized the toxicity of that. Coming back to school last semester without John being there had been rough, but it wasn't until this semester when it truly sank in that he wasn't coming back. His heart hurt a little more than it should've, too, for Tori and for Julia. The whole situation is just sad to him, and he'd been trying to talk with Dr. Mitchell about it some since the first week of classes.
"I think I want to change my major." Henry says, sitting in Dr. Mitchell's office now in the early afternoon on this cold and rainy Thursday.
Dr. Mitchell had been staying mostly silent, used to Henry being in his office for long periods of time. At this point, Henry realizes that he's kind of like another decoration in Dr. Mitchell's office—sometimes he needs to talk, and Dr. Mitchell listens; and sometimes he needs help, and Dr. Mitchell gives it; and sometimes he just needs to sit in there and watch as Dr. Mitchell works in order to ease his mind about whatever he's thinking on, and Dr. Mitchell always lets him.
When Henry spoke up finally, Dr. Mitchell picked his head up from grading quizzes, looking over at Henry with a curious expression. He pulls his glasses down his nose, looking at Henry over the top of them, "What is your major now, Mr. McCord?"
Henry looks down, a little embarrassed at being a junior and still not having a totally settled major. "History," he starts, then looks up sheepishly at his professor and mentor, "But, the thing is, I just chose that because I thought it might help me with my career in the Marines." He admits, then looks back at his hands that were playing with each other, "And I'm not even sure anymore that I want to be a lifelong Marine."
Dr. Mitchell turns his chair and faces Henry, resting his elbows on his desk like he so often does while he continues to look at him over his glasses, "And why don't you want to be lifelong military?" He asks, "It's decent pay, good benefits..."
Henry looks at Dr. Mitchell, not having to think about his answer this time, "The idea of leaving Elizabeth behind for most of my life is just..." he shrugs, pressing his lips together and raising his brows, "I can't imagine doing that for the rest of our lives until I decide to retire one day."
The older man simply nods, listening closely to Henry. It bothered him so much whenever Dr. Mitchell wouldn't answer but would simply close his eyes and think. "What a weird old man," Henry used to think, and still sometimes does think, but he's accepted that it's part of who he is now.
"I want a family with her, Dr. Mitchell," Henry adds, causing the professor to open his eyes again and meet Henry's, "I want to be her husband, fully there for her in every way, and I want to be someone's dad. I think those military parents who make it work are amazing, but I don't...I don't want that to be my life." He admits.
"I see," Dr. Mitchell replies, "You're doing well in the ROTC though, no?"
Henry nods, "I am. I've been ranked at the top for my entire time at UVA." He states, his chest puffing up a little, "I enjoy the ROTC, and I think I'd enjoy the work I'd be doing in the Marines, but I don't want to neglect Elizabeth and any future and children we may have."
"You have a while to think about that, Mr. McCord," Dr. Mitchell reminds, sliding his glasses the rest of the way from his face and leaning over again, "In the meantime, what are you thinking of changing your major to?"
Henry smiles at him, "Religious Studies."
Dr. Mitchell cracks a little grin, his always-freshly-shaven face wrinkling with the movement. "Well," he says, trying to act surprised, "I do believe I'd like to say I didn't see it coming, but...you've been one of my top students the two semesters I've had you in my courses, Mr. McCord. And I must say that the Department will be glad to have a smart young man on board such as yourself." He leans back in his chair, something he rarely does, and it catches Henry's attention. "If you want to change it today, I suggest going to Admissions and submitting the form. I'll warn you, though, that sometimes if you change your major this late in your education career that it adds a little extra time onto your stay here."
Henry swallows hard, thinking about the implications of that. If it adds a year, he thinks, the ROTC will accept it and he'll be ready to fly F-18s straight out of school with the additional training he'll have. It'll also put him on track to graduate the same year as Elizabeth, so he nods, "Got it," he says, standing up and throwing his backpack over his shoulder, "Thanks, Dr. Mitchell. I'll see you Monday."
"Have a good weekend, Mr. McCord."
"You too," Henry says as he's walking out of the door and heading to Admissions.
When he gets to the other building, he follows the signs to the people who can help him change his major, "How can I help you dear?" An older woman with hair still stuck in the 1960s asks. Her glasses, on a chain, are slid halfway down her nose and her lipstick is a bright pink. And that hair, oh, that hair. Henry remembers when his mom wore a beehive style when he was very young, and he's glad it went out when it did.
"Hi," Henry says, trying to peel his eyes away from her hair, but instead getting stuck on her bright pink lipstick. Dragging his eyes from there, he makes himself look her in the eye, slightly distracted by the bright blue eyeshadow, "Hi, um, my name is Henry McCord, and I would like to switch majors."
The look of contempt that she gives him takes him by surprise, and he just adjusts his backpack on his shoulder as he watches her shuffle through a filing cabinet drawer beside her desk. She produces a stack of papers and licks her fingers a little too much before pinching a paper off the top, extending her hand out to Henry. He watches as the light makes the wetness on her fingers glimmer, and he tries to hide a wince, "Thank you," he says, taking the paper carefully.
"Fill it out and bring it back to me," she says.
He goes over and sits down, grabbing a book out of his bag to put underneath the sheet of paper. Writing the words "History" and "Religious Studies" felt good to him, and he felt like suddenly the air was easier to breathe, even though he hadn't realized how hard it was before. He signed his name at the bottom after putting his class and all his student information, gets up, and walks the paper back over to the woman. He notices the nameplate on the top of the counter this time: Betty Bufort.
"Here you go," he says softly, sliding it over the counter until it's just slightly hanging off the other side.
She takes it without a word and quickly scans over it, making little grunts of approval or disapproval—he wasn't sure which. "A junior?" She asks without looking up, "I'll have to warn you, this'll set you a year back. You have to take the basics in this department to be able to graduate."
"I'm prepared for that," Henry says confidently, just hoping that the ROTC was as prepared as he was.
She nods and signs her name to the bottom, "Do you have an advisor in mind or would you like me to just assign you to someone?" She asks, adjusting her glasses so they were perfectly halfway down her nose again.
"Actually I do," he says, "Dr. Mitchell in Religious Studies, please."
She peeks up over her glasses and raises her brows, and only then Henry realizes that they're drawn on, "Dr. Mitchell?" She asks, "As in Jonathan Mitchell, the chair of the department?"
He looks at her in confusion, "Yes," he answers slowly and carefully, afraid he was mis-stepping or remembering his favorite professor's name incorrectly. "Dr. Jonathan Mitchell, chair of Religious Studies." He says again, being extra careful to listen to the words coming out of his mouth.
She slides her glasses off her face and lets them hang around her blossom-y bosom, just underneath the white neck cuffs, "What are you dating his daughter or something?" She asks.
He frowns, "He has a daughter?" He asks honestly, then thinks about all the pictures that are around his office. He has three kids, he knows that much, and one of them is definitely a girl. He's seen her in the pictures. "I mean, no, I'm not dating his daughter." He says.
Her brows fall back to a normal position again and she just lets out a chuckle, "You must have something over on him because he doesn't have, and hasn't had, a good reputation." She says, then stamps the paper a little too aggressively. "You're all set, Mr. Henry McCord." She says, handing him a slip of paper that confirms the major change and has Dr. Mitchell's name, office number, and phone number written on it.
Henry glances down at it before flashing her a smile, "Thanks," he says before turning away, afraid if he said much else that he'd stare at that electric blue eyeshadow for too long again.
January 19, 1988 | Elizabeth
"Religious studies?" She asks, not meaning for it to sound quite as patronizing as it did. Her soccer uniform shirt is getting stuck over her face as she says it, though, and she hopes she can blame the irritation in her voice on that if he questions it.
When she doesn't hear an answer for a moment, she peeks around the closet door and sees him looking a little sulky on the bed. She walks out and steps into her soccer shorts on the way out, walking to him, "Henry," she says softly, tilting her head as she ties the strings, "I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it babe?" He asks with a sad little laugh, looking up at her like a dog who's been abused.
She sighs, "I just—it took me by surprise I guess, that's all." She says and turns from him, going back to the closet to get her socks and shoes. "I knew you'd been getting really into that, though, and if it makes you happy I think that it's really great." She says from inside the closet, bending over and putting her socks on. She comes back out with the socks pulled up to her knees, sitting on the edge of the bed with him to get her shoes tied on. "Why the sudden change?"
He shrugs a little and looks down into his lap, "Well," he says, "I've just been thinking a lot about training camp and—"
"You're not dropping the ROTC, are you?" She didn't mean for that to sound hopeful, and she's hoping she masked it enough that it wouldn't sound that way. She didn't want him to give something like that up just because she wanted him to.
"No," he says softly, "No, I'm in too deep already for that." He says and looks over at her, "No, I just was thinking about leaving and how I won't want to leave you like that for the rest of our lives. I want…" he laughs a little and shrugs, "I want to settle down, which sounds really ridiculous when I say it out loud, but I do. I want to be here for you. I want a family with you, and I know what you said about that nightmare you had that you thought was silly and that you—"
She stops him by grabbing his hand and squeezing a little, "You're rambling," she cautions gently, "Slow down."
He gives a sheepish smile and looks down at their hands, then puts his other one over theirs, "Remember the nightmare you had? About you going into labor and I wasn't there?" He asks, and she nods immediately. That nightmare still haunted her some nights, and it's only gotten worse since he announced last week that he would be gone. Deployment was creeping up on them whether she liked it or not. "Well, I don't want that to happen. In fact, I'd hate myself if I let that happen. I'd hate myself as a husband to you and as a father to our kids. I want to be there for you fully, be there for our kids fully," he admits and looks up at her eyes, "I signed up for the ROTC to piss my dad off. It worked. I'll get some time in, get some life experience, and then I'll get out."
She nods slowly and looks down at their hands, his sandwiching hers, "Okay," she whispers, "But then what?" She asks, then realizes how it sounds, "And I don't…I don't mean to sound like that, Henry. If this is what you want, and it makes you happy, you know I support that." She says desperately, trying to not sound like a total bitch, "But I know you, and I know that you feel the need to be the support of this relationship." She says, thinking back to when she read in his journal, "And if you're not…well, I don't know what that will do to us. Or to you, particularly."
He nods a little and bites his lip, "I know," he answers, "I don't know yet what I want to do with it, but I'm hoping I can figure it out soon. I've kind of thought about being a chaplain." He admits.
"Like…a priest?" She asks, her knowledge of organized religion very lacking.
"Not quite," Henry answers, "I'd be ordained, so yeah, but no." He says and shrugs, "I would go to hospitals and read people their last rights, I wouldn't be in front of a congregation or something."
She lets out a sigh of relief, "Good," she breathes, "I'm really glad for that, Henry, because as much as I love you, I don't know if I could be a pastor's wife." She admits, letting go of his hand and putting her shoe on. "I don't even know how I feel about it all sometimes."
He's staying pretty quiet over there as she ties her shoe, so she looks over her shoulder at him to see him staring at her while she works.
"What is it?" She asks, putting the other one on her foot and tying the laces.
"I'd never push you to figure out what you believe, Elizabeth, and I don't want you to think this is me doing that." He starts, "But I think it'd be…it'd be helpful for you to maybe think about it." He suggests, "To sort that out with yourself. Whatever it is you believe, I think now that you got some closure with your parents' death that it might be helpful for you."
She thinks about it for a moment. At first, she wanted to flame out at him for suggesting that she think about religion or her beliefs—she knows she needs to, and she will in her own time. But then the more she thinks about it, the more she knows he's right. It's time. It's time to figure out what she believes, if anything, and how strongly she believes in it. "Okay," she says, tightening the laces on her shoes, "You're right."
He leans over and presses a kiss on her cheek, "You're not too mad about me changing my major?"
She looks over and parts her lips, about to make a sarcastic remark until she sees the way he's looking at her: hopeful, and once again, like a dog, but this time one who is waiting for a pat on the head. She shakes her head, "I'd never be mad about something that makes you happy, Henry." She whispers, "Unless it's drugs…or excessive alcohol use. Or cheating."
"Cheating wouldn't make me happy," he states quickly, and she looks over and smirks at him.
"Good job," she teases to lighten the mood, leaning over so that he can put a kiss on her head again before she stands up, "I'm proud of you for doing what you want to do," she says, "And I'm happy that you'll be graduating the same year as me." She admits, feeling a devilishly selfish as she says it with a grin, "I don't know if I'd like UVA as much without you around to be there with me."
She heads over to the bathroom counter and keeps the door open while she puts her hair into a braid, then looks over at him, "And who said we were having multiple kids?" She asks, playfully being suspicious. "I agreed to the idea of kids, but really I was agreeing to the idea of one. I don't know about multiple."
She hears him laugh in the bedroom and it brings a smile to her face as she looks in the mirror, working on the French braid down the back of her head. "Well, what if we have twins?"
"Henry McCord, bite your tongue."
"You think we—"
"I don't even want to think about the misery that must bring along to carry two children in one body. Nope, not happening. If twins run in your family somewhere down the family line, I'm never letting you knock me up." Elizabeth says, only half-playing.
He snorts in the other room and lays back on the bed, folding his arms over his stomach and staring up at the ceiling, "I can't think of any family who are twins." He admits after a moment of silence, "Do you have any twins in your family?"
She thinks for a moment, too, and pulls the braid around to the side of her neck so that it gives her arms a break after doing the back, "Not that I can think of," she says, "So maybe we're safe on that part."
When he doesn't answer, she cranes her body around the doorframe and looks at him again. He's still staring up at the ceiling, his eyes wide open and his hands crossed over each other in the middle of his stomach, but he's smiling now. Smiling with teeth, even. And it's one of those goofy smiles that he gets whenever he's thinking about something that's either inappropriate or something that is exciting to him.
"What are you thinking about?" She asks, then playfully adds, "Making babies with me?"
He tilts his head to look over at her, still smiling, "No," he says and laughs, "Well, yes, but not what you were thinking." He admits and looks back at the ceiling, letting his neck relax back into the bed, "No, I was just thinking how cool it will be one day to know that you and I…that we made something so amazing and intricate together."
As he's talking she feels her stomach wanting to do a flip, but she keeps braiding even though she's getting slower as she starts thinking more deeply about his words.
"I mean…isn't it amazing? Kids, I mean. They're half you and half me. I feel like we're pretty close in our relationship, don't get me wrong, but that's got to be the ultimate level of intimacy when you're holding another human being that was created from loving someone." He says, his voice becoming a bit distant.
She's looking in the mirror and notices her cheeks are getting rosy and that she's been holding her breath. She takes a deep one in through her nose, grabbing for the rubber band to tie her braid up before flipping it behind her back.
"Right?" Henry asks, and she realizes she's stayed silent for too long.
However, her stomach was too busy knotting up and doing all sorts of flips and jumps, partially from thinking about how nerve wracking it must be to grow a human and birth it, but also how he's so right: holding a child that's half him, half her will send her heart into outer space. She knows it. "Right," she breathes and walks into the bedroom, leaning over him and kissing him from the side of the bed while his feet dangle off the end. "Do you think about that a lot?" She asks after another moment.
He looks into her eyes and nods, "Probably more than I should," he admits, "Having kids with you isn't my life's goal, but it sure would make my life pretty damn amazing."
She smiles at his choice of words, "Such colorful language for a religious studies major." She teases playfully, pecking him on the lips before standing up and putting her hands on her hips. "For what it's worth, I think a lot about it too. I just…I like thinking about what he would be like. Would he be like you? Like me? Would he look like you or me the most?"
"He?" Henry asks, sitting up on his elbows and smirking with one corner of his lip, "You think we'll have a boy?"
She shrugs, "Can you imagine me as a girl mom?" She asks and folds her arms underneath her chest tightly, "I had a little brother and basically raised him as a teenager. I don't know how to be a girl mom." She says and grabs her sweatpants, putting them over her uniform before throwing on a sweatshirt. That was the worst part about soccer season: the cold in the beginning.
"They're not that different." Henry says, "I mean, Shane and Erin…they're different, but like…I don't know how to explain it." He says.
She smiles and walks to the bedroom door, "You ready?" She asks, "I want to leave in time to stop and get some dinner before the game."
"You said we'd eat after the game." Henry says as he sits up and slides off the bed, grabbing his coat and putting it on.
"Yes," she answers, her voice getting a little higher, "But I also want to eat before the game." She says sheepishly, puckering her lips in an innocent fashion.
He laughs and simply presses his lips to her cheek as he walks past her, grabbing his keys, "I love you and your appetite."
January 19, 1988 | Henry
When they arrive at the field, the lights were already on, and the snow was just starting to sprinkle from the sky like little tufts of flour. He walked to the passenger door like he always does, opening it for her and closing it when she slides out. She tightens her sweatshirt around her, "God, I hope they let us play in our sweats tonight." She says.
He's half listening, half watching the snow collect in her hair. He thinks about the way it contrasts so beautifully in that golden color, and he realizes finally that she's staring at him.
"Henry?" She says.
"Oh," he answers, shaking his head, "Sorry."
"Is something wrong with my braid?" She asks, feeling her fingers through it.
"No," he says, "No, I was just watching the snow fall."
She raises her brow and laughs quietly, "Our baby conversation really has you messed up." She teases, walking over to the field.
He grabs the cooler from the back of the Bronco and carries it over the field with her. She was the first one there, as always, but this year she made it an absolute point to be the first one there: she'd been named as team captain after her performance last year. He was not one bit shocked when she told him after their first practice, and he wasn't even shocked when she told him that the head soccer coach for UVA's women's league had approached her and asked her to tryout as a walk-on for the team. She'd politely declined, though, and that did surprise him. When he asked her why she didn't want to do it, she shrugged and told him, "I just want to have fun with it."
He sets the cooler down and she immediately checks it, making sure the drinks were in the ice good enough. Even though it's snowing out, she knows that they'll all want something cold to drink during the game. He watches as she closes the lid and slides her gloves back on over her hands, rubbing them together for every bit of warmth she can create. A few of her teammates start arriving and he watches as she greets each one, realizing that Michelle must not have joined this year. Maybe she, too, was hurt over John's death. He wonders if Michelle really loved him, and if she's even still at UVA this year. He hadn't seen her since last soccer season with John hanging around her all the time.
Happy to fall into the background and watch Elizabeth do her thing, he slowly makes his way to the first row of bleachers, making his spot there. He grabs the blanket from his backpack that he carries to games, draping it over his shoulders and wishing that she, too, could have a blanket. Soon enough, though, she's out on the field with her teammates and their opponents doing their warm-ups, and the ref blows the whistle for the game to start.
He watches the back of her sweatshirt as she runs for the ball, seeing that number nine flop in the wind as she sprints. He brings his hands up to his mouth, blowing into his gloves to try to warm them, and watching as his breath goes all around in the air.
Just as the first night he met her, he was entranced by her, but tonight, he was thinking different thoughts. "Will our kids be athletic like her? I hope so, I hope they don't get made fun of like I did for not being athletic. Will they be musical like me? If they're not like her in the athletic department, then I hope they're musical like me. I'll teach them how to play guitar at least, and I'll pay for any lessons they want." He blows into his gloves again as Elizabeth nears the goal, watching as she is analyzing which way to go, "I hope they're smart like her. They? Oh God, I'm using 'they' again. She said one. But really, will she stick with that? Surely our kids will be cute, she can't possibly still be set on one when she sees the first one." He thinks about Amanda briefly, thinking about how cute she is, but then Elizabeth kicks the ball into the goal and scores the first point of the entire season.
He jumps to his feet, yelling and screaming with the rest of the small crowd gathered there, and she looks over and gives him a thumbs up. "Yeah," he thinks to himself, "That's my future wife."