A/N: Here's a little oneshot that might turn into a short story, depending on what you all think I should do.
A bit on the angsty side, but ugh, I do love some pre-MSec angst sometimes.
Hope you enjoy!
August 3, 1991
The boxes had been lining this hallway for over a month now—just a little more time than Henry had been gone. She'd been meaning to start unpacking them, but starting her new position at Langley had her all out of sorts, and honestly, she missed her husband too badly to even think about looking through any of his stuff.
But now, today, this rainy Saturday, she's decided she's going to conquer at least a few of the boxes and make a dent, hopefully, in the line of them.
This morning, though, when she'd woken up, she'd known she had to do it today. No, not the boxes, the other "it" that she had to do. The "it" that was ruminating on the bathroom counter, lying in wait until the clock strikes five minutes past when she left it there on that countertop. She'd been putting it off for too long—she knew it was time to rip the Band-Aid off and confirm what she's pretty sure she already knew.
Of course she knew how the female body worked—she loved science, for that matter, and knew human biology very well in high school and throughout college. She knew that a missed period could mean a pregnancy, but somehow, her brain was trying to protect her from that reality. Somehow, she kept saying she would get her period eventually. Somehow, days turned into a week, and she was still late. Somehow, she knew that she and Henry's last goodbye was more special than either of them had thought.
But also, she just kept putting the thought off. She knew she was a week late, but the thought never crossed her mind to actually take a test and find out for sure. Instead, she just kept going to work like nothing was wrong, until it finally happened Wednesday. She finally couldn't stop hugging the toilet.
In the most embarrassing turn of events, her boss Conrad's wife was there, Lydia, with her newborn baby. She passed Elizabeth in the hallway while bouncing the baby in her arms, "Are you alright?" She asked Elizabeth, catching her off guard and stopping her in her tracks.
Elizabeth turned and eyed the woman, "Me?" She asked, wiping subconsciously at her face, wondering if she had remnants of her not-okayness on her chin. "I'm alright." She lied.
Lydia tilted her head and walked toward her, "You look like you've been sick," she stated, meaning absolutely no harm by the statement even though it made Elizabeth want to strangle this stranger.
"I'm fine, really." Elizabeth lied again, ready to turn and walk away from the woman. "Do I know you?" She finally asked, not able to put her thumb on who this woman was—with a baby, no less. She felt like she recognized her from somewhere, but she's pretty sure she's never met her. Is she a POI? No, surely not.
The woman gave her a warm smile, but her eyes looked exhausted, "I'm Lydia," she said, "Lydia Dalton, Conrad's wife." She added on, positioning the baby into one arm and extending her hand out for Elizabeth to shake.
Elizabeth eyed her one moment more and shook her hand. Conrad's desk. That's where she's seen this woman. The picture frames on his desk—of course, she should've known! "Oh, that's right," she breathed, rubbing her forehead a little with her free hand, "I'm so sorry, I've only ever seen you in pictures on Mr. Dalton's desk."
Lydia smiled and shook her head, "Don't worry about it," she cooed, "And you are?"
"Elizabeth," she said, releasing the woman's hand and tucking both of her own hands into her pockets, "Elizabeth McCord."
"Oh!" Lydia exclaimed a little too loudly, making the baby wriggle and let out a little cry. Lydia looked down in a panic, immediately bouncing and staying quiet to will the baby back to sleep, which worked, miraculously. "Conrad talks about you all the time. Says you were his star recruit."
Elizabeth felt her cheeks redden and get hot, but then felt nauseous once more. "He's a great boss." She said awkwardly, "If you'll excuse me." She hurried, accidentally brushing her shoulder when she passed by Lydia and back into the bathroom.
When she came back out, Lydia had planted herself in the seat down the hall from the bathroom. She was holding the baby—baby Harrison, Elizabeth thought—and stood up when she saw Elizabeth. "You are not alright," she stated, "Is Conrad working you too hard?"
Elizabeth sighed a little and shook her head, "Not that at all," she said, "It's a nice distraction from the rest of my life right now."
Lydia tilted her head, patting the baby on his butt gently, "I don't want to pry, but I'm a listening ear." She offered.
Elizabeth thought the move was sweet, but she also thought about the fact that this is Conrad's wife she's talking to. She doesn't need it getting back to Conrad that she's having a hard time—she's trying to move up in the CIA, not get stuck because of her own mental health getting in the way. "My husband," she started, trying to figure out what to tell and what not to tell, "He's in Desert Storm. Flying F-18 Hornets." She added, then took a deep breath. "I think I'm just…I'm feeling a bit anxious about it is all."
Lydia swallowed thick and nodded, but kept her gaze on Elizabeth, "Is that all?" She asked.
Elizabeth eyed the woman, wondering why she was prying so much. She'd just met her—how could she possibly tell her anything more? But something about her—something about the way she seemed genuine—made Elizabeth blabber on. "I'm feeling out of sorts." She admitted, feeling much too awkward and embarrassed to admit that she thought she might be pregnant. Pregnancy was becoming less and less taboo, but she still felt like she would be ridiculed for it for some reason.
Lydia nodded, "As in pregnant?" She asked, "I ask, and I hope I'm not wrong, and if I am forgive me," she begged, "But I ask because I know that look," she explained softly, "The look of fear and anxiety mixed with a terrible sickness that a stomach bug has never quite touched."
Elizabeth breathed in deeply and nodded, "Exactly that." She said, trying to fight off another wave of nausea. She felt as though her stomach were caving in on itself and as though she could topple over from exhaustion.
"Have you taken a test?"
Elizabeth swallowed hard and looked down, "I haven't really thought about it much," she admitted, "Today's the first day I've been sick, and with Henry gone…" she trailed off and stayed staring down at the floor.
"Do you have someone to talk to about it?" Lydia asked gently, and Elizabeth didn't appreciate her prying but also appreciated her simultaneously—she wasn't sure which she felt more, though.
She just shook her head, "I'll figure it out," she said softly, giving her a little smile and checking her watch, "I am about to be late for a meeting. I'll tell Conrad I met you today." She said, hurrying off. "Nice meeting you!"
She had to leave that meeting twice, though, and finally Conrad had sent her home. She stayed home for the rest of the week, even—that's how she knew it was bad. She wasn't scheduled to get a call from Henry until late Saturday night, though, and she knew there was no point in worrying herself half to death over it yet. So today, she's conquering the boxes while that little test determines whether she has a right to freak out or not. And also whether she's going to be a wreck on the phone tonight or not.
She opens the first box lid, peeking in to see that it's winter clothes of her own. She scoots it over to the side, sliding it toward the spare bedroom door to put everything winter in that closet. The next box she gets to when she comes back is taped, so she has to go to the kitchen and find the scissors before coming back and ripping the tape. She digs into the box, looking around and not really recognizing the contents. She frowns, digging through some more and finding a photo album.
Grabbing the album out of the box, she sets it on the edge and dusts the front off, "Elizabeth Marie Adams." The letters on the front were curved, and the white fabric of the book had faded into a bit of a cream color. There were pink polka dots mixed in with little stains that it accumulated over, what she guessed, the past twenty-three years.
She opens it carefully and finds pictures tucked away inside that she's not sure she'd ever seen before. In handwriting off to the side of each picture carefully stowed behind plastic, words like "Elizabeth's first day of kindergarten" or "Elizabeth's tree house" are written. She thumbs through the pages, amazed that her parents had kept anything like this—she'd never even known about it. She wonders where it's been all these years, and then it hits her that some of these boxes are from a storage unit she's had since she was fifteen. Her aunt and uncle paid for it until she graduated college, and then she took it over, and now that she and Henry are married, she took everything out of storage and brought it with her to their first home.
She thumbs through more and pauses when she sees a familiar face—that of her mother, Suzanne, and she has Elizabeth in her arms. Elizabeth thinks she must be about two here, and she runs her fingertips over her mom's nose, feeling an inexplicable rush of sadness come over her.
Her eyes fill with tears and quickly overflow down her cheeks, and a droplet plops down onto the plastic covering the other pictures. She takes her tee quickly and wipes at it, moving her gaze back to her mother.
Taking a deep breath, she glances at her watch and realizes it's time to go look. She carefully sets the book down on the edge, making sure before she moved that it wouldn't fall, and heads into the bathroom. With her eyes closed, she rounds the corner and reaches blindly for the test, smacking the counter a few times before touching it with her ring finger and knocking it, from the sounds of it, into the sink.
She opens her eyes then and finds it gliding a few times in the bowl, then grabs it up with the face down, "Okay," she whispers to herself, "One," she breathes, "Two," she closes her eyes again and takes the biggest shaky breath she's taken before skipping three and flipping it over. She opens her eyes and sees two lines—two faint pink lines that signify every worry she's been experiencing for the past week or so.
Too much in shock for her to be teary, she simply stares at the test for a few moments, making sure the lines weren't going to disappear. They held steady. She set it back down after an unknown amount of time, moving out of the bathroom in a daze.
She had to get out of the bathroom. She feels claustrophobic for the first time in her life—at least she thinks that's what it would feel like to be claustrophobic. Gasping for air out in the hall, she catches a glimpse again of the photo album and leans her back against the wall, her palms gluing themselves to it, too. Her eyes shut and her body wracks, followed soon after by a sob. The sound she makes surprises her—she didn't know she had something so heartbroken-sounding inside of her.
Her eyes flutter open cautiously, making contact once more with the album before reaching across the hallway and grabbing it, letting it slide gently off the box. She looks again at the picture she'd seen earlier, her beautiful mother and her, and she can't see it for the blurriness of her eyes.
She flips the page, deciding to keep going down memory lane. The next page has more pictures of her and Suzanne from the same day, and these have "Elizabeth's third birthday" written beside them. In the picture over on the right page, Suzanne is chasing after Elizabeth, and she realizes then that her mom was pregnant with Will.
Her hand brushes over the picture, wondering if that's what she'll look like, too, or if she even looks like her mom at all anyway. Sometimes she feels like she doesn't, like Will was Suzanne 2.0 and Elizabeth was a miniature of her father. That's what everyone had always told them growing up, at least, that even though Elizabeth had her mother's kind eyes, she was her dad made over. Not that she didn't want to look like her dad, but sharing something like that with her mother would be special—more special, she thinks.
She sets the book down to the side and takes a shaky breath, trying to calm herself before another wave of nausea washes over her, causing her to rush to the toilet and heave up the toast she'd made herself eat for breakfast. I wish you were here, she thinks to herself, her best image of Suzanne appearing in her head.
And then she feels another round of it, throwing up again into the toilet even though there was nothing left to give. She sniffles as she flushes the toilet, knowing Henry would be holding her hair back right now if only he were here. How am I going to tell Henry? She thinks to herself, shutting her eyes as she leans her back against the tub.
Carefully, she rises to her feet and heads back to the hallway, her heart feeling as though it's pounding outside of her chest. She rifles through the box again, looking at what all is in here. Her hand touches what feels like a bag, so she pulls it out and looks through the contents. The first item she pulls from the bag is a little dress—lace collar and all—and she holds it up to get a better look. She recognizes it immediately as the dress from one of her pictures in that book—she thinks it was from one of her first church services, according to the album.
The irony hits her—this church dress in a time like this? When she feels further from God than ever? Why would His timing be this way—such a cruel sense of time?
If Henry were here, he would quote something from his own religious background to make her feel better, but he's not here, and that makes it all the worse.
She sets the dress back down in the box and looks through some more, finding socks, booties, hats, and blankets in the mix. Finally, she picks up the box with what remaining strength she has and carries it into the spare room, plopping it down in the corner underneath a window. She sits down on the carpet in front of the box and leans over, resting her forehead on the corner of it before sighing. "I miss you." She whispers, thinking of her mom's face in her head so clearly. "I wish you were here right now." She admits, "You'd be able to help me…I don't know the first thing about babies or being pregnant." She mumbles, the lump in her throat keeping her from getting all her words out she wanted to say. She watches the tear drops fall from her eyes and onto the carpet, and she blinks away the blurriness again, "I wish you were here," she repeats quietly.
Down the hall, she hears the phone ringing, so she wills herself to her feet—feeling as though her body were about a hundred pounds heavier—and rushes to the phone. "McCord residence," she answers, finally getting used to saying that.
"Babe," Henry breathes, and she hears him smile through the phone. She can tell by the way his lips make the noises—she can tell when he's wearing a smile while talking.
"Oh, Henry," she cries, immediately losing any composure she might have had.
A silence falls over them before he finally finds his voice again, "What is it? What's wrong?" He asks, "Did something happen?"
She hadn't been able to talk to him since last Friday—something about their unit having to move locations. It could have been a multitude of things that happened, of course, so she can't blame him for being so worried. As upset as she sounds, it sure doesn't sound like it's something that's supposed to be happy and joyous like a baby.
"I'm pregnant, Henry," she just blurts out, leaning her body against the wall—otherwise she would definitely fall over.
Another silence. A long, painful silence.
"Henry?" She whimpers, "Say something, please."
"I'm here," he manages, and she hears him swallow hard. "I'm here." He says, but she wants more. Something other than this because, though he means well, he's not here. He's there.
"Say something." She whimpers again.
"Are you okay?" He asks.
"What do you mean am I okay?"
"Are you alright…physically, and all."
"I'm sick," she admits, swallowing thick and wiping away the tears streaming down her face. "Henry, this isn't how I wanted this to go."
"Me either." He whispers.
She sniffles and looks down, her foot tapping side to side nervously, "I'm really scared."
"I'll be there for you, babe." He assures, but she's not sure how he can say that when they have no idea, truly. The military could call him back out. "I know what you're thinking—and I know you're along right now, and God, I'm so sorry." He almost whimpers. She knows he can't show too much emotion—his crew would ridicule him to no end. "I want to be there more than anything in the world, Elizabeth."
"I know." She whispers, closing her eyes and putting her palm over one side of her face. "I know."
He clears his throat on the other end, "I love you, and I'm so, so happy to be a dad," he whispers, "I hope you know that."
It's her turn to be silent this time because she can't say she's happy to be a mom. Not yet. This isn't what she'd wanted right now. This wasn't in the cards for them for years—or it wasn't supposed to be. She's just getting off the ground at the CIA. How is this going to affect her career? Her relationship with Henry, even? They've only been married just under two years.
"Babe?" He says.
"Yeah," she answers quickly, swallowing hard and sniffling, "I love you too, Henry," she whispers, "I am just having a hard time."
"I know." He whispers.
She wipes her tears away again, "I don't have anyone to turn to." She admits shakily after a few more moments of silence, making herself be vulnerable enough for a moment to admit that. "At least most military wives have their moms." She whimpers, "I have no one."
She thinks she hears him let out a little whimper, but she's not sure if it was that or the guys making fun of him in the background. "I'm sorry," he whispers.
She hears yelling in the background and then a loud, clearer voice booming, "Let's move!"
Her eyes close and she holds her breath, "I love you." She says.
"I love you too, talk as soon as I can." Henry coos before the phone clicks.
She looks down at the phone in her hand and lets out another sob, that same heartbreaking one that she didn't realize she had the capacity for earlier, and just slides down the wall. This is supposed to be a happy time, right?