A/N: Hello! Hope you enjoy this new story. It's pre-Madam Secretary (what I seem to most enjoy writing) and will be a multi-chapter fic. I've noticed emails aren't working again on FF so please, if you have a Tumblr or even if you don't, try to check my Tumblr page writingmccord for updates! Sometimes the emails work, and sometimes they don't, so you can always give this a follow and hope for the best, too.

Hope you enjoy!

August 25, 2005

"And then there were the miscalculations," she shifts, turning and leaning against her podium on her elbow. She takes a long breath in, looking out at the class of juniors and seniors—and one sophomore that she's still unsure how he managed to get in an upperclassmen credit. "The intelligence failures," she starts listing, "The missed warnings, the failures of imagination that allowed the attacks to occur."

She pauses again and looks down at the podium, thinking back to the time before 9/11. The time before there was a "pre" and "post." The before and the after all teetered back and forth on that September day that she knew could have been prevented, had they only seen the signs and recognized them and taken action.

She'd agreed to teaching this class in her first year, though she hadn't been sure about it from the start.

"We would love to have you teach a Poli Sci seminar on 9/11 since you're so knowledgeable." Straight from the dean.

"I—" She'd stuttered, folding her hands across her lap and unfolding them again before finally, once more, settling on folded. "I don't know if I'm the person for that job, Dr. Hink."

"I believe you are." Dr. Hink replied, leaning back in his chair and staring her down—or at least it felt like he was staring her down. He was gracious to be giving her a teaching position at all—she'd just finished her dissertation and was surprised to be getting a full-time gig anyway. But now he's asking hard tasks of her—difficult tasks, to say the least.

Would she be able to tamp down the feelings she had surrounding 9/11 and her part in it? Or the lack of part in it, rather? Would she be able to look past the memories of Iraq and interrogations and the screams that she'd heard as she walked away? Would she be able to think of 9/11 and not deeply regret quitting the CIA each and every time? "I'll have to talk to Henry," she answered him finally, "Make sure that he's okay with this. He fought in the War on Terror, too."

Dr. Hink nodded slowly, but he knew Henry. He knew he'd be okay with it. "Sounds like a great plan," he said, "I'd like to hear back from you by the weekend."

Her mind raced to point out the fact that it was Thursday now. "I'll have an answer to you by the end of Friday," she replied, standing up and shaking his hand.

"For years," she continues, picking her head up and looking at the class again, some taking notes and some half asleep, "The United States had been aware that the threat was there, being posed by radical Islamist groups." She emphasized the word "radical,: trying to pound it into these kids' heads that there was, certainly, a difference between radical and not. "We failed to fully grasp the magnitude of the danger until it was too late." She admits, feeling her throat want to close up.

"Are you sure it's a good idea, Elizabeth?" Henry asked, taking his shirt off over his head and tossing it into the hamper. He stood by the bed, waiting to hear her answer.

But she wasn't sure what to answer. She just stared at him, blinking, wondering what to say. Even, daringly, hoping he'd answer for her. "I don't know," she admitted defeatedly, her shoulders deflating some as she let out a kept-in breath. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about 9/11 like it's history."

Henry listened for a moment before sliding his hip onto the bed, looking at her again and swallowing thick, "I don't know when it'll ever become history."

"Jason won't remember it happened," Elizabeth pointed out, "It'll become history then—when this generation has no memory of it but knows what it is."

"We'll make sure they know." Henry answered.

"I know," she replied, shaking her head, "But we have years until Jason's ready to hear the story of how the U.S. Government—and his mom," she added for good measure, "Dropped the ball."

"It wasn't all on you, Elizabeth." Henry pointed out, lightly scolding her for blaming herself again. She'd heard it all too much over the past almost-four years. She knew it wasn't her fault alone, but out of everyone, why didn't she catch it? Why did no one else catch it? Why couldn't they just see the damn danger that was hurling toward them? "If you're not ready, you're not ready. Tell Dr. Hink."

"I don't know that he'll hire me if I'm not willing to teach this seminar." She admitted, finally sitting down on her side of the bed, too, and bending her leg to shift her body and face him, "He seems dead set on me teaching it."

"You have the most knowledge about it—more than anyone at UVA."

"Well of course I do," she spouted, then realized how much of a braggart it made her sound. She let out a breath, "I mean, I was in the thick of it. I went to Iraq, for God's sake. But I can't tell them that, I can't tell Dr. Hink that. I was never there. Only you and the CIA know that." She admitted, feeling so tired and confused that a moment passed where she just wanted to cry. But she didn't, she held it together instead and swallowed thick, "I have no other choice."

"You don't have to work," Henry reminded, "You can stay home for now and we'll figure it out as we go. We'll cut back here and—"

"You know I can't stay at home," she admitted, almost ashamed to say it out loud. But it was true. She wasn't cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. She loved her kids more than her own life, but she couldn't stay home with them all day everyday. They'd drive each other crazy.

Henry stayed silent, and then she figured it was time to break the overwhelming quiet. "I think I have to do it."

She grasps the podium a little tighter and stands up straight, her mind tugging at her autopilot teaching mode and begging her to think about Iraq. Begging her to think about all the unethical choices that were made. "So why did it happen like it did?" She asks her class, "And what led up to the attacks, and how did the U.S. respond to the aftermath?" These are rhetorical questions, but finally some of her students are perking up and looking as though they care a little more to be here.

Looking out across their faces, she examines them one by one as they wait for her to speak again. Some are attentive, waiting for her next words. Some, however, are sketching in their notebooks—still possibly listening, just not making eye contact. Some look as though they never brought their head to class in the first place this morning.

"Alright," she says, "I've talked enough for right now, let's go ahead and get the roll going." She announces, pulling out a sheet of paper from her bag that has everyone's names listed in alphabetical order. She fumbles around in her bag for a pen, finally pulling one out and marking the date on the first slot, ready to check those who are here. Inevitably, she assumes, there will be someone who didn't make it to the first day of class.

As she goes down the list, calling everyone by first and last name, she makes note of what they look like. A CIA habit that she can't throw out right away—and she wonders if that's something she'll ever be able to lose, anyway. "Jack Cassidy." She calls, down to the Cs. When she hears a "here" and sees the hand raise, she studies him. Athlete, she guesses, history major with a minor in physical education. "And your major, Jack?" She prompts—the question that everyone was supposed to answer along with their name being called.

"Phys. Ed and History."

"Double major?" She asks as she writes it down next to his name, just as she's done with the others.

"Mhm." He answers, leaned back in his seat with his arms folded.

She nods a little, then continues to go down the list. "Blake Moran." She calls, now down to the Ms.

"Here." A voice says, and her head looks up to see the hand being raised. She gives him a smile—he's in the back corner, but he's one of the students she's noted as being attentive the entire time. He's been scribbling lots of notes down. "Finance with a minor in Political Science." He announces.

She smiles again, nodding and writing it down next to his name. "You're the sophomore in my class, right?" She asks.

"Yes ma'am." He replies, and she laughs to herself. He may not be the suck-up his classmates are probably thinking he is, but he's definitely an overachiever. She's gathered that much already.

She stares at him a moment longer, then finally moves down the list. "Lana Nolan?"

"Here."

She moves through the rest of the list with no mishaps, and only two people weren't present—not too bad she assumes. Her list gets tucked away back into her bag and she clears her throat, "This class is very discussion heavy. If that makes you uncomfortable, the drop period ends in about a week, so I would suggest finding a new class before then."

She slinks backward into her seat, feeling as though she's in the principal's office. Technically, he is a sort of principal. "You can't tell them to find a new class, Elizabeth." Dr. Hink chides from across the desk.

"What if they need to find a new class?" She asks, raising a brow and folding her arms, crossing her legs at the same time. "If they don't want to discuss, they won't get a good grade, and they will be sad about it. I'm just warning them upfront."

He sighs, looking down and trying to suppress a laugh. "Henry told me you were headstrong."

"He did, did he?" She asks.

He looks up and nods with a defeated smile, "He did."

"I'll have to talk to him about that." She plays, but sounds serious. "Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?" She asks him, uncrossing her arms and readying herself to stand up.

With a sigh, he tells her that it is, and then dismisses her. The whole reason she'd been brought in here anyway is because Lana Nolan's mother is a secretary to the dean and she told her she wanted to switch classes. Elizabeth had her pegged correctly—an airy girl who joined the class to find boys. This wasn't the class for that. Take another U.S. History class, but not this one. Not the one that centers around a topic so huge in her life that it still shakes her every time she thinks of it.

Once she leaves his office, she makes a quick stop by her own office to grab her things and leave for the day. She turns right out of her office and walks down the hall, making her way to Henry's office above her on the second floor. When she finds his door, she knocks first, ensuring that there's no students in there. When he says come in, she peeks her head around the door, "Anyone order a headstrong woman?" She harasses, raising her brow at him.

His face moves from happy to see her, fading to a look of scolding, then back to an amused smirk. "I definitely did." He says, standing up and walking to the door. He opens it and she steps in a little more, pecking him on the lips.

"As headstrong as I am," she starts again, "I'm surprised I came when ordered."

She's looking up at him dangerously, and she knows she shouldn't start it here, but something about him calling her headstrong made her feel a bit fired up. It also made her want to pinch him, so she does, and then when he looks astounded, she just laughs, "You knew you had that coming."

"Oh did I?" He asks, moving closer to her as he shuts the door, getting in her space unnecessarily and wrapping his other arm around her in the same movement.

She looks back at the door when she hears it latch, just to be sure, then kisses him again. "You had to have." She teases, then lays her hand on his chest, "I already had to make a visit to Dean Hink's office. That's how I found out I was headstrong." She says, making a point to let him know with her facial expression that she wasn't going to let that slide any time soon.

He just leaves his hand resting against the door behind her, his other arm snaked around her waist, and his hands gently exploring the inside of her back pants' pocket. He lets out a slightly amused sigh, then tilts his head a little, "In trouble already?"

"I told them they needed to drop the class if they didn't want to join in on the discussion, which is like, half of the grade." She points out, keeping the space between them down to just inches. Just standing here in his office—his office in the religion department—shouldn't feel so intimate. But she could stand here forever with him like this. "And apparently one of the girls in my class is the daughter of Dr. Hink's secretary."

"Ahh," Henry lets out, nodding and laughing, "So you were ratted out."

"I was." She says, "Wrongfully."

He raises a brow, "You should know you're not supposed to rock the boat on the first day," he reminds, "You always wait until the second day."

She snorts and brings her arm up, wrapping her hand around his forearm that was extended by her shoulder and still resting on the door. Tilting her head, she looks up at him and bats her eyes twice, "And on the second day, how do I rock the boat, Dr. McCord?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Dr. McCord." He replies playfully, taking his hand from her back pocket and sliding it up her shirt.

"God," it tumbles out of her mouth and she laughs purely, looking up at him and raising her brow. "I hope you don't rock the boat like this with your students."

He snorts, too, and shakes his head. "Only with professors who share my last name."

"How was school?"

Stevie just stares at her through the visor mirror. She wonders if Henry gets this look, too, or if it's just her. Teenagers. "Fine," she mumbles, then looks out the side window.

Elizabeth looks at Henry, then realizes his hair is a little disheveled in the back. Maybe she should keep a brush in his office—or maybe in hers. Or maybe they both should keep a brush now. Did I even look at my own hair? She thinks to herself, then looks in the visor mirror again but looking for her hair this time. Under the circumstances she had just been in within his office, it looked fine enough. Maybe windblown—that could be the excuse she could give if anyone asks. It's breezy enough out today.

"Well," she murmurs back to Stevie, "Glad it was fine, I guess." She says, then shares a smirk with Henry. She's sure they were thinking the same thing: teenagers.

The pick-up line for Ali and Jason was shorter than Stevie's since they get her first—most of the parents had already gotten their kids by now from the elementary school. Stevie's was their first stop on the way home, though, and Ali and Jason are both social enough that they don't mind hanging around the school for a few minutes extra. At least that's what they said yesterday before they'd started at this new school.

With everyone's first day of school being today, Henry had suggested stopping at the pizza place on the way back to the farm, and Elizabeth agreed. When Ali and Jason got in the car and shut the door, Henry looked back into the rearview mirror at them, "We're stopping for pizza for dinner," he announces.

"Dad," Stevie seethes, "It's, like, 3:30."

He raises both brows at her, and Elizabeth can feel her wilting from the passenger seat. She wonders why the look doesn't work on Stevie when she does it, and only works for Henry. But nonetheless, she's just glad the tone isn't directed at her today. "And it'll be, like, 4:30 when we get home with the pizza." He says, adding extra teenage-girl-sass on the "like." He looks at Elizabeth, "And then we'll, like, warm it up when we get home."

She smirks at him, knowing Stevie is just getting mad because he's mocking her. But sometimes you have to tease the tweens a little—otherwise they get a little too, as Elizabeth's grandparents would've said, "big for their britches." And they were right. She's seen Stevie think she knows it all already, and she's not even quite thirteen yet. But she's close enough that they both have resorted to calling her a teenager.

When they make it back to the farm with the pizza, Elizabeth reminds the kids that they have evening chores—mucking the stalls, feeding the horses, and putting them in for the night. Their usual evening chores that they've been getting used to all summer. Out of all of them, Alison is the only one who didn't show a complaint. Once inside, Elizabeth sets her bag down and flops over on the couch.

"You have chores to do," Henry reminds her playfully, putting his hands on his hips and looking at her like a scolding mother. All he needed, she thought, was an apron and a little feather duster and he would have the 1950s mother-look down.

"I'm too tired." She admits, then looks at him, "It's your fault anyway."

"My fault?"

"Yours." She continues, "You know it tires me out to keep quiet. I'm so headstrong and all."

He snorts again, sitting down on the couch beside her and leaning over, kissing her cheek real quick before patting her leg. "Fine. My fault." He concedes, standing back up and sighing. "I have chores, too." It's almost a groan, but she just smirks at him.

"Better get to work, Mr. McCord." She says, raising her brow. She likes the way "mister" sounds on her lips when she's at home, yet at the school, she loves the way "doctor" sounds. She supposes it's two different areas of their life that deserve two different titles.

He reaches his hand out, and she pouts at it, but finally takes it and stands up. Their chores didn't consist of much during the school year—they'd distributed them among the family and also cut down on some of the things that had to be done around the farm by working overtime in the summer to get it all fixed and finished. Now it was just maintenance chores, part of owning a place this large with this many moving parts.

He walks outside with her hand in his, and she's happy to just trail behind him, though her mind is wanting to pull her back into the Iraq days. It's been nagging at her since they had been driving home from picking up a pizza. She thinks he can sense it, though, because he's been extra attentive—more than he usually is. He may not know what's wrong exactly, but he knows something is up.

She follows him to the chicken coop and grabs the feed scoop, picking up a serving up feed and scattering it for the hens. They immediately start pecking at it—a good distraction while Henry collects their eggs from the day. He tucks them all in his palms, and something about seeing the way he handled all those eggs made her shiver a little, but she continues to spread the feed around. He catches her looking at him, then chuckles, "I'm probably about to drop them, aren't I?"

"I don't calculate risk," she admits, "I just profile the risktaker."

"And what does my profile say?"

She eyes him, throwing the rest of the feed out of the scoop and putting it in the bag. "It says that you're careful, meticulous, and would rather roll your ankle than break those eggs."

He laughs, "A detailed profile."

"I've been profiling you for twenty-seven years now, McCord." She states, "I'm good at my job. Thorough."

"Thorough indeed." He replies, tucking the last egg into his front pocket and moving very carefully toward the door of the coop. Elizabeth looks up and sees this and can't help but laugh a little, then sees the kids going up the house.

"I'll water the chickens if you want to go ahead and go inside with those eggs." She offers.

He nods, "See you up there." He replies, still focusing carefully on the eggs in his hands, especially the ones balancing on his pinky fingers.

She watches him all the way up to the house, then sighs as she looks at the chicken and turns the water on to their dispenser, "Just us gals now." She recognizes out loud, watching the water fill their bucket. Some of them are paying attention to what she's doing, but most of them are still looking for any remainder of feed on the ground. In the mornings, they also get some oyster shells, but that's not part of their night routine and never has been. Though, they're chickens, and a little on the unaware side of life.

She twists the spigot to turn it off, and the squeaking of the metal rubbing against metal felt like it was making her ears bleed. She takes a deep breath in, wondering if she would be this irritable the whole semester she was teaching this class or if it would get better eventually. Tightening the spigot, she rubs her hands together to get any remainder of dust off from the feed, then wipes them across her pants, then groans a little. These are good pants, she scolds herself.

Huffing a little, she opens the door and looks out toward the barn mindlessly, heavy with a fresh round of guilt from the CIA's 9/11 slip-up, and from her own inability to catch it. Henry's right, of course. It wasn't all her fault. But she could've helped somehow.

When she slides the lock into the hole, she hears something behind her. Her head whips around and she looks, but she doesn't see anything. Her eyes scan the tree line—nothing. She squints a little and looks again, wondering if it was a squirrel that could've made a sound that loud, but dismisses that. Maybe it was a deer, she tells herself, dropping her hand from the lock and going inside.