A late-night conversation set sometime between Geneva and the Farmhouse argument. It's just a little plot bunny that entered my head and basically wrote itself.
"Henry," Elizabeth whispers into the quiet of their bedroom. It's two in the morning, but she knows he isn't sleeping either. She could hear his breathing; it was not slow or even. They are facing opposite walls, their backs to each other, and the imaginary trench between them is seemingly not crossable.
"Elizabeth," Henry replies. There is no emotion in his voice, no question in his tone, just an acknowledgment that she is speaking to him.
"Are you angry?" Her voice is barely audible, but it's not because she is whispering.
"Yes." He admits. He is angry. He has been angry. The images of her in the hotel room in Geneva, the guilt in her features. He doesn't know if he believes it—her feelings of guilt. Sometimes, he thinks she does feel guilty for her decision at the negotiation table. And other times, he thinks her guilt was for the feelings she knew he would have. He's unsure which one of those ideas is the better option.
"Will you forgive me?" There is a hopefulness there that makes his stomach drop.
"Elizabeth, I need you to sleep." The words are like ice. They both know what that means. No. He's not ready to forgive. She fears he may never be. She's been contemplating giving him an out. She knows Henry is much too dutiful to leave her. He wouldn't. He would spend his life miserable and sacrifice his happiness in the name of duty to his family—in the name of duty to his vows to her. And she fears that's what she's become, a duty to fulfill.
She is crying now. Silently, not sobbing. Tears slip down her cheeks as her body shakes ever so slightly from the effort to remain silent.
Henry turns to face her back. He can see the slight shaking. He wants to reach out to her, but he can't bring himself to do so. He doesn't deserve happiness. Not after what he allowed to happen. And yes, she played a big part in the whole production. But it's his inaction that bothers him the most. He didn't stop it. He didn't fight for Dmitri's life. He let her and the President make the sacrifice in the name of the greater good. What he did is on him, and what she did is on her.
"I'll go." She whispers. It's so soft and so pain-filled, "I know you're not happy... If it would make you happy... I'll be the one who leaves."
"Elizabeth..." Henry is suddenly overcome with emotions.
"You're not happy, I can't fix that." She's crying, "I... Henry, I'm at a loss. You're so angry at me... And you're refusing to talk to me about it... You're not even fighting with me... You're just not here."
Henry feels a tear slip down his cheek. It's all too much. He can't handle the emotions anymore. He needs her. He needs to hold her. So, he reaches out and places his hand on her shoulder carefully, as if he's prepared for rejection so hot it'll burn. But he's met with a small sigh, almost a relief. She's not rejecting him.
"I'm scared to be without you." He confesses, "You are my life, Elizabeth."
"But you can't forgive me." She says. And to her, it feels like the absolute truth.
"I'm working on it." He pulls her close to him.
She rolls over to face him and places her head on his chest. She can hear his heart beating, and she lets the rhythm soothe her.
"I'm trying." He whispers, "And I know you are too. And I can see how hard this is on you. It's killing me, Elizabeth. But I need time. I can't pretend like everything is normal. Like we're fine. Because it's not."
She doesn't say anything because she knows they're not fine. He's holding her, and she still feels like he's so far away. She used to wonder how marriages crumble seemingly out of nowhere. But hers is. It was sudden, and she believes it happened in a single afternoon. It wasn't the moment she agreed to the deal. It was the moment right before—the moment she decided Henry's feelings did not belong in that room. She can place the blame on Conrad, and she doesn't believe she'd be wrong to do so (he put them both into these jobs), but that feels like a cop-out. She was the one who said yes. She is the one who can't forgive herself. And the fact that her husband can't either is crushing.
"How long do we work on it before we decide it's killing us both to be so close yet so far?" She asks him. Because a few months doesn't change habits she's had for over twenty-five years. Henry is the one who keeps the faith because she doesn't know how.
"Elizabeth, it hasn't been that long." His fingers are drawing circles on her shoulder, a calming action for both of them.
"You haven't touched me." She tells him, "And I don't mean sex... Henry, you are so tactile. Your hands are always on me... A pat on my arm, a caress of my back, a hand on my shoulder, a brush against me, an arm around my shoulders... But you haven't touched me since that afternoon. I've initiated all contact between us since then." She pauses for a breath, "You shrug me off most of the time... Do you realize that?"
He's silent, his hand no longer moving across her back. She's right. He's not sure when he stopped touching her, but he has. He's not sure when the small actions of affection stopped, but they have. He has been so focused on Dimitri. He dreams about the day in the van over and over. He thinks about the day he convinced the kid to work for him over and over. He's internalized all of his feelings, leaving nothing but a cold, empty husk for a man.
"I didn't mean to." He whispers, "I'm sorry."
"What if we can't get past this, Henry? What if it's too much, and we've already done the damage?"
He swallows. Her question is valid, and the answer terrifies him. He vowed until death does them part. He never even contemplated leaving her. But what if she has a point? What if the damage is done and it can't be mended? Where would that leave them? Heartbroken or happy? Both? Neither?
"Then, we decide." He says, "I think it would take some time to really decide. But we'll be able to tell. We've got to keep trying."
"Are you happy with me, Henry?"
"I love you." He says. He's not lying. He does love her. That's why her actions hurt him so much.
"That wasn't my question." She whispers as her heart grows even heavier and the lump in her throat gets impossibly hard to swallow.
"No, I'm not happy, Elizabeth." He confesses. He doesn't know if it's their marriage that is making him unhappy. That might be why it feels so wrong to say. But he isn't happy. He doesn't know why. That's the whole truth of it.
"So, why not take the out?" She's crying now, unable to stop herself, "Why stay if it's not making you happy?"
"Because I love you. It's unbelievable that it is that simple. But it is. I love you, and I'm not ready to give up on finding happiness with you again. And I don't think you're ready to give up, either. So, why are you even asking me this? You can't want this to be the end."
"I'm not... I don't want this to be the end. But... I can't be the reason you're so hurt and not offer to fix it. If I can fix it... If I could make you happy again... I want to do that. And, Henry, leaving is all I can offer." She knows she stumbled through those sentences. There is something so terrifying about trying to face this head-on.
"It won't make me happy. It'll just compound the pain." He says quietly, and she knows it's a sudden realization for him. He had forgotten that her presence had once made him happy. He was too focused on the thought of her leaving, "Please, don't leave me."
"Okay." She whispers. She feels the exhaustion of the late night, and the conversation hits her. She places a peck on his chest, still too scared to look at his face. When had they lost the ability to look at each other during hard conversations?
"Thank you." He whispers and pulls her closer, "I know you're still not convinced. But please trust me, it won't make either of us happier."
She nods. But she doesn't really believe him. Sometimes, she feels like she's the only one trying to work it out. It feels like she's the only one fighting, and maybe Henry is simply waiting to see how much energy she spends, and then he'll make a decision. Maybe it's all just an act to keep her from leaving. Maybe she's right about his sense of duty. But tonight, she'll let it slide once again, knowing that tomorrow most likely won't be any better. And maybe they continue in this pain forever. Tonight, she'll let his words sink in, and she'll allow the feel of his chest rising and falling as he breathes to soothe her. She'll let his arms around her make her feel safe and comforted and loved. And tomorrow, she'll continue her fight for both of them.