A/N: Hello! New story! Woo hoo! This is inspired by the song Billy Joel debuted on the Grammy's called "Turn the Lights Back On." It's a beautiful ballad that, to me, is representative of a relationship that's been through a lot. And ultimately, relationships always need work, so here's the product of listening to that song.
Hope you enjoy! (Also, updated Henry and Elizabeth? Current day? Yes please!)
February 3, 2024 | Henry
Another little town, and this time, in the state of Virginia—home. The campaign bus rolls to a stop along with all the SUVs escorting it, all for Henry McCord, the First Gentleman of the United States.
As it pulls to the curb, he lets a sigh out when his eyes meet the little library covered in a layer of snow. Another night with a good turnout, but the thought of going and shaking hundreds, maybe even thousands of hands makes him consider faking an illness. He's been doing this for three weeks now with the help of Stephen, his aide, and of course a slew of campaign folks on Elizabeth's re-election team.
They have traveled the entire East Coast, making stops in major cities like Tampa, Atlanta, Columbia, Raleigh, and too many more. The smaller cities were his favorites—the places you're not even sure are cities, actually. Places like Apalachicola, Florida or Bryson City, North Carolina where people do everything but ask you to spend the night with them. He's had dinners—or samplings of dinners—at people's houses while going door-to-door. He's held babies of women with thick Southern accents while they hug on him and tell him how great they think his wife has been for the country. A woman with a "Virginia is for Lovers" tee shirt was one of the most memorable, however, in a little town they stopped in. She had a tattoo of Elizabeth's face on her ankle, and Henry honestly wasn't sure whether he felt proud or weirded out. (He finally decided it was a touch of both.)
He takes a look over his shoulder at some of the team bustling around, getting prepared for their last stop of the tour for now, and he wonders if they, too, would be happy if he faked an illness. No, he thinks to himself, This is what they live for. They thrive on this.
With that thought, he stands up and makes sure his shirt is still tucked in neatly, which it hadn't been because they'd been riding for over three hours and he's tossed and turned as much as one can in this seat during those hours.
A new ache had started in his back last summer, one that came back too frequently for his taste. He did his typical routine whenever he had gotten a backache before: stretch, stay active (as active as the FGOTUS can be while having to carry a string of security in front and behind him), and rotate between ice and heat. The White House doctor told him it was a flare up of sciatica, and had he ever had it before? Well, yes, but not this bad. "Well," the doctor said with a smile, "You're getting older, Dr. McCord."
Those three words held onto Henry with a tight grip for the last few months. Getting older? He'd ask himself every once in a while, scoffing at the idea. But then he would catch himself in the mirror of this bus, noticing the gray that is now spread throughout his hair. It's no longer just little specks here and there, he's more gray than he's not. He supposes at sixty-one years old it's acceptable to be "getting older," as the doctor told him, and to be looking in the mirror and seeing gray hair. But it's something he couldn't quite wrap his mind around as he stands and feels that pain shoot down his leg, trying to stretch for a moment by bending his back and then stretching to each side, loosening all his tight muscles up as much as he can.
"Last stop, Dr. McCord." Stephen says, rolling up beside him in the aisle. "For a while at least." He adds, flashing a sheepish smile at Henry when he gives him a little look.
Henry's lips are pursed together as he finishes stretching, shaking his arms out like wet noodles. "For a while." He mumbles, looking out the window at the line of people waiting to get into the library to meet him. He swallows thick and lets out one last sigh, trying to force himself to get happy. No one needed an unhappy First Gentleman to deal with in the news later this week. And really, the news is the least of their worries usually. It could easily affect polling numbers, too.
So he takes a deep breath while putting his coat on, closing his eyes, dropping his shoulders, and then lets it go before walking to the bus's door, stepping down into a blanket of snow toward a crowd of clapping and cheering people. He flashes a smile, waving his hand in the air at everyone, then bringing his other one up for good measure to make sure everyone gets a wave. He tries to make eye contact, but he's already been doing this for what feels like so long that his arms feel hard to hold up.
He scans the crowd and tries to make eye contact with as many people as he can, but for some reason, the signs graced with his wife's face were holding too much of his attention tonight. He stops mid-stride, pulls his feet together, and just stares for a moment at a sign that had a cutout of her head with words written in big letters that say, "I'm for McCord!" He smiles for a moment, a lazy, half-smile that had not come out in a while. It had been too overshadowed by the flashy one, the one he needed to put on as FGOTUS while campaigning for his wife to serve another four years. But it felt nice to get that smile back for a moment before he put his flashy one back on, walking to the line and shaking hands as his team drags him into the library.
No one was inside yet except some of his team members as well as the library workers, and Henry immediately goes to them first and shakes their hands, learning each of their names. A few members of the board and two librarians, and apologies for the ones who couldn't attend tonight. Henry got a stabbing feeling in his chest—couldn't attend, or didn't want to? But he never lets his smile falter, simply nodding and thanking them for coming. He asks, then, to send well-wishes to the others who couldn't make it out tonight.
"Dr. McCord," Stephen says, getting his attention.
He looks back and sees his aide waiting for him in the designated "spot," the place where he would shake hands, kiss babies, hopefully not be kissed by others, and probably sign people's body parts, if it's anything like many of their other Virginia stops. He makes his way over there and stands on the little X one of the team members laid down for him, making sure the camera would always have him in the frame. He looks back, seeing the backdrop of books behind him and smiling, getting a flash of his mother's face in his mind.
It's been so many years now since she's passed, but every once in a while, he wonders what she would have thought of all this: of Elizabeth being President, of them being anything more than young parents, and of Henry being here shmoozing the American public into voting for his wife for another four years.
He shakes the thought from his head, though pleasant, when he hears a gaggle of voices coming through the door. He sees people starting to line up again and flashes that smile again, the smile that gets him on magazines for being the "Sexiest Husband Over 50" or on the "Hot Hubbies" list from some fashion magazine that Ali showed him. It makes him cringe sometimes to think that's what he's been reduced to, but he tries to remember the important work he is able to do because of his job as First Gentleman. And that's what keeps him going.
As the line goes by and he meets as many people as he can, shaking people's hands and giving them hugs, he can't help but think how ready he's going to be to sleep in a real bed tonight instead of that bus bed. How excited he'll be to have real breakfast instead of the microwaved garbage that they tried to pass as good cuisine—he had a bone to pick with Chef Cindy, that's for sure, for not sending him better food. If he's required to eat White House food, he should at least get the good stuff while campaigning.
And after what feels like hours upon hours, the last person is through his line, and he's taken pictures with the board and the librarians, and he's done all the hand-shaking he'll need to do for the next week, and he's boarding back on his bus for the drive to the White House.
When his back hits the seat, he cringes at the pain in his glute, closing his eyes and sinking backward into the seat as far as he can. He peeks his eye open when he feels the bus starting to roll, and he sees the sun setting over the horizon and making the snow glow with a pink tone. That now-familiar-again lazy smile graced his face once more before his eyes flutter shut, drifting off to sleep for a while longer.
February 3, 2024 | Elizabeth
Mike B is standing in front of her desk, waiting for her to finish signing these documents while he leans his palms on it. He stands up a little to check his watch, letting out a bit of a huff.
The huff catches her attention and she drags her eyes upward, looking at him up over her glasses. "Am I going too slow for you tonight, Mike?" She asks, sarcasm dripping from her husky voice.
Mike looks at her and slouches over like any teenager would, "No," he says, "Well yes, you are, you always sign these things too slow."
"I don't want them to smudge!" She interjects.
He rolls his eyes, "The pens are literally made for you and for—" he stops himself, "You know what, it's not worth it. Just sign the papers?" He breathes.
She leans back into her seat, putting the pen down and raising her brow, "What has you so worked up tonight, Mike?" She asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
He sighs, annoyed once more that she's stopped signing. Especially since there's only one more to sign, but she's not going to do it until he drops the little attitude—it's worse than Emmie's attitude. She's only just turned two at the end of January, one day before her mother's birthday, but Dmitri and Stevie already have their hands full with that one. So she just looks at him, wondering if he's going to spill whatever he's flustered about.
He eyes her for a few moments, but then finally turns and sits sideways on her desk—a sign of disrespect as far as he's usually willing to go, and crosses his arms defiantly like she's doing. "I have a date tonight."
"A date?" She breathes, clearly amused as her eyebrows shoot up and she pulls her glasses from her face, gently tossing them onto the desk and letting them slide over the papers. "Do I know the unsuspecting gal?" She asks, leaning forward and resting her chin in her palms, bending her knuckles around her cheeks. She likes hearing about other people's love lives a little more than she should these days, probably. With Stevie married and Ali totally uninterested in settling down, and Jason totally uninterested in telling his parents anything about his dating life, she thrived when her staff would give her tidbits about their romantic lives. Nothing too gross, of course, but she liked the little blushes she would see come across their face whenever they had someone new in their lives. Mike B, even, was no exception for her.
"Yes you do," he answers vaguely, raising his brow. "Now, can we finish up before she thinks I stood her up?"
She smirks a little and reaches slowly for her glasses, not letting her eyes leave his as she does so. "Who is it, then?" She asks, picking up the pen at a slow pace, teasing him more and more.
He watches with a growing annoyance, becoming more impatient by the second. "Elizabeth," he snaps.
She raises her brow, her face turning from mischief to shock in a second. Sometimes, even though it's Mike B and she should expect nothing less, she still gets rattled whenever she hears her name be exclaimed from one of her staff members. She was so used to the formality of everything, of being President, that she sometimes forgot what it sounds like coming from someone else's mouth like that.
"Fine," he says, "You know her well."
She thinks for a moment, then her eyes widen again as she puts her glasses on the top of her head. A mistake, she'll realize later, because she never puts them on top of her head when her hair is in an updo—the nosepieces get caught in her hair and she has to pull the whole thing down. "Nadine?" She asks in shock, "She didn't tell me she was in town."
"It's a one night deal." He replies. "Which is why I'm trying to get you to hurry along."
She smiles a little and reaches for her pen again, starting to write while squinting, then realizing she needs her glasses. She looks around for them for a moment before remembering they're on the top of her head, and she goes to pull them, but the nosepieces are stuck in her hair like always. She sighs a little in frustration before pulling strands of her hair out of the pins that held it back, the blonde locks falling into her face. But she catches a glimpse of them, noticing the amount of gray mixed in with the blonde. She's been dying her hair for a few years now, but she'd put it off this last time and now it's gotten pretty gray again. She tucks the strands behind her ears before putting her glasses on properly, taking the rest of her hair down and signing the paper.
"Tell Nadine I said hi." She says, "And that she should come see me."
Mike laughs a little, "Alright," he says, "But you're not getting her tonight."
She purses her lips and raises her brow, giving him a disproving look, just like any mom of a toddler would. And sometimes that is how it feels: Mike B is the toddler, and she's his mother. Other times it feels like the other way around, so she appreciates the reciprocation.
When he leaves the room, she turns her chair and looks outside at the glimmer of the D.C. lights shining around her. Her back leans against the leather as she pulls her feet up into the chair with her, her shoes having been kicked off long ago, and she wraps her arms around her legs.
"Madam President," she hears a voice, recognizing it as Blake's.
She turns around and smiles tiredly when she sees him, "I was just finishing up these annotations." She says, looking at the stack of papers on her desk that held her speech for Monday's international summit.
Even though they were the same physical weight as any stack of papers this size, the weight felt heavy in her hand. This summit has the potential to hugely impact global relations, particularly with China, and consequentially has the potential to hugely impact her reelection campaign. She glances down at them and sees all the red pen marks she's made, giving herself notes and whatnot, and then back at Blake.
"We've received the latest polling numbers," Blake announces sheepishly, "They're encouraging…"
"But?" She asks, drawing it out of him as she places her feet firmly on the ground.
"But…" Blake says, "There's a notable concern regarding the public's perception of the administration's domestic policies." He admits.
She sighs a little and slouches her shoulders, folding her hands in her lap, "Schedule a meeting first-thing Monday morning." She instructs, "We'll have to strategize for those head-on, and I want a detailed plan on my desk by Wednesday."
"Yes ma'am," Blake says, "Anything else I can do for you tonight?" He asks.
She shakes her head, "Nope," she says, "Hey, Blake?" She asks.
He turns at the door, looking back at her and awaiting the rest of the question.
"Have you seen if Henry's home yet?" She asks.
He nods, "He got back about—" he looks down at his watch, "About an hour ago, I'd say." He says.
She nods a little, smiling tiredly, "Thank you," she says, "Have a good night, Blake."
"Good night, ma'am." He says, shutting the door behind him.
She stares at the back of the door for a moment, wondering why Henry didn't tell her he was home, or why he didn't come visit her. We haven't seen each other in weeks, she thinks to herself, standing up on her feet and shuffling the papers around to stack them neatly on her desk. What's up with that? She asks herself, finding herself frowning a bit too much. She loosens her face muscles and slides her shoes on, groaning when her heels start to ache from the incline of the shoe. "When do I get to start wearing sensible shoes?" She wonders aloud, mumbling it to herself as she walks out of the door and into the private quarters.
When she walks inside, she kicks her shoes off immediately and doesn't stop walking, just leaving them in a trail from the door as she stumbles into the kitchen, looking for whatever Chef Cindy sent up for food. Instead, she sees Henry leaned against the kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal.
Her eyebrow raises as she smiles, "Cereal?" She asks.
"Chef Cindy sent up kale salad and a turkey burger." He complains, shoving another spoonful of sugary goodness into his mouth.
Elizabeth smiles a little and walks in further, going up to him and kissing his lips, but not missing the coldness that seemed to radiate from him. Deciding she doesn't want to pick a fight right now, she just walks on, grabbing a bowl and a spoon, the cereal, the milk from the fridge, and pouring her own bowl of cereal. She'd text Ali later and let her know there's food for her here—she likes the kale salads and the turkey burgers. Ali likes free food, though, because fashion designing might be her passion, but it's one that doesn't make her much money these days.
"How was the campaign trail?" She asks, putting the lid on the milk and sticking it back in the fridge.
"New question?" He murmurs.
Taken by surprise, she turns and looks at him, frowning a little, "That bad?" She asks.
He shrugs and leans over his bowl, crossing his ankles as he leans further into the counter with his backside, "Not bad necessarily," he says, "Just…exhausting." He admits.
She nods slowly, watching his posture and knowing he's holding something back. Holding something in, maybe, she can't tell. She walks over and hops up backwards on the other countertop, picking her bowl up and shoveling in a pre-approved, Presidentially-vetted bowl of cereal and chewing for a moment. She picks her eyes up from the bowl and looks at him again, scanning him once more, "Did something happen?" She asks.
He shakes his head, "Nope." He says.
"Henry," she replies immediately, trying to stay calm, but ultimately realizing her tone didn't radiate sunshine or rainbows. "What's going on with you?" She asks.
He shakes his head again, just shoveling a spoonful in and staying silent.
She watches him and takes everything in, setting her bowl of cereal in her lap as she holds it with both hands and chews, squinting her eyes at him. She wracks her brain for what could be wrong. Had she forgotten their anniversary? No. They'd been together on their anniversary. Well, they started out together, but then she had to leave because of an emergency in the Situation Room, leaving him alone for the evening and well into the early morning. Had she forgotten his birthday? No, that wasn't until the summer. Has there been some new, wild news story come out about an affair she hasn't had? No, she doesn't think so, someone probably would've mentioned it to her if so. They usually do. And there were plenty to go around, she was always sleeping with some other politician, according to the tabloids and extremist news websites.
But no, she can't think of anything, so she finally sets her bowl down with a loud clack against the granite countertop. "What gives, Henry?" She snaps.
He looks up at her under hooded eyes, and she notices the dark circles underneath. He drops his bowl away from his face and just holds onto it in front of him, eyeing her. She notes that they're definitely in a staring contest, and she also notes that she's definitely not losing to him. Not when he's being pouty like this. No, she's not losing to this version of Henry.
"I'm exhausted, Elizabeth." He says, this time his tone is straightforward and maybe even a bit distant, somehow.
She just stares at him, though, "And you think I'm not, too?" She asks.
He shakes his head, "I'm not saying that," he replies, setting his bowl down and crossing his arms, "I'm just saying I've been on a campaign trail for three weeks, riding in a bus the entire time, and have shaken thousands of people's hands and talked to that many, too. I'm exhausted." He repeats, adding a little more emphasis this time.
She slides off the counter, leaving her bowl there as she walks away and toward the bedroom, "Glad you're home." She mutters on her way out, even though her voice states that there's not much happiness in the statement.
She doesn't stop in the bedroom, going straight into their bathroom and to the sink, leaning against it and taking a shaky breath. Her head is drooped down, staring at her feet as she wonders if they're going to make it.
It had been years since she wondered that. The last time the thought even crossed her mind was when she and Henry couldn't speak to each other because of their jobs, and right after the Iran bombing it had gotten really bad, but then got worse as time went on. There were times they weren't talking at all because they couldn't talk about work, and work was what was consuming them at the time. That's been years ago, and now they're back at it? She thought they were past that point in their marriage—the point of not talking.
She picks her head up and looks at herself in the mirror, the gray strands stringing from her head again. The tears forming in her eyes battle to make their way out of the ducts and onto her cheek, but she blinks them away, denying access to her skin. She pushes herself up to stand straight, swiping at her dry cheeks and sniffling before grabbing a washrag to clean her face.
As she dips her rag under the warm water, her mind feels like there's a fire going on inside of it. Will their marriage make it through this presidency? Will another four years make it irreparable?