Los Angeles, CA – October 2014

Henry, with no other way to express his current flurry of emotion, picks up one of the files. Elizabeth keeps her silence and observes her husband. Ex-husband, she corrects herself. She has never used that word to refer to him, but his titanium wedding band, with the blue tint, reminds her that she is no longer his wife. And she hasn't been for a long time. Yet, she still knows him intimately enough that she can feel his rage as he reads the first file cover to cover five times over. He slams it back down her coffee table, and she flinches slightly, but she doesn't react otherwise because Henry doesn't scare her. He picks up the next file and does the same thing again, cover to cover five times over. And it gets slammed back down. And as he opens the file on her setup, he stands. And he paces as he reads, and she sits, and she doesn't know when she pulled her knees to her chest, but she has. And her eyes follow him. And when he closes this file, he throws it on the table. It lands hard on the glass and she notices the water in her glass shake.

"How can he live with himself!" He yells. And though it's not at her, she recoils. Because she can't handle being yelled at anymore, not that she ever could really. And Henry, well, Henry never yelled; he was a fighter pilot; they don't get to have short fuses. The amount of anger it takes to elicit a yell from Henry is astronomical. His fists stay clenched, which tells her that he's not even interested in trying to calm down. Her eyes follow him back and forth across the room. His anger is palpable, and she doesn't know how to deal with it. Maybe there was a time when she would've. She racks her brain for the knowledge she has of him, trying to find the words that will help. But it's been too long.

He continues pacing, "And you, what were you thinking? Letting him get away with it?"

She nods. There it is—Henry's sense of justice. Always black and white, always cut and dry. She is not surprised by his question, but the accusation makes her feel ashamed and guilty. She knows if she voiced that, he would hear her out, but she doesn't know if she deserves that. Before he came here, she had settled into this life alone. She has not had her PTSD triggered this badly in a couple of years. And now, he's here, and she feels so much shame and guilt and regret. She wants him to tell her it will be okay, but she is not his responsibility. Not anymore. Being faced with that reality is hard. She had been able to keep her marriage in a box. A box she could mentally file away and look back on fondly, knowing she'd never have it again. Knowing she had loved and lost.

She lets him keep yelling.

"How could you let him get away with it? You could've called me. Anytime! When you got back to the States. I would've helped you, no matter what I had going on. You know I wouldn't have abandoned you!"

He doesn't realize the extent of her pain, the extent of her self-loathing, and the extent of her doubt. And he doesn't realize how hard it would've been on everyone. And Elizabeth had thought about everyone. She knows Henry would have tried to be everything for everybody, but she knows him. He would have put her recovery and her mental health before himself. And he would have felt guilty for not being fully available to the woman who was pregnant with his twins at that time. Team McCord would've needed time and attention because their mother came back from the dead, and she was different. She had weighed all the options, and Conrad had won out. Her mind is clear now, but at the time, she was a mess. She was barely able to function and take care of herself, let alone be a mother. But she won't voice any of that now. It's not the time; he's too angry and too vulnerable. The amount of information he's had to consume in the last few hours is overwhelming.

"Why?" He demands, and it is an accusation, and it's not fair. But he doesn't know what to feel.

"You're upset; it's been a long day," she starts, and he snaps his gaze at her.

"No, no. Don't pull the, 'we should talk about this when you aren't mad,' because I'm not done being mad," he says, and he's not. His hands are shaking, and the blood is rushing to his ears, and his heart is beating out of his chest. And he tries to remember a time when he felt this blood-thirsty rage. The day he was notified of her death. The day Conrad told him, that day Henry wanted to wrap his hands around the man's throat. Maybe he should've.

"I didn't say we couldn't talk about this now," she counters.

"So, then answer the question," he yells, and he doesn't mean to snap at her. He doesn't. But his brain won't slow down. His heart rate won't slow down. He can tell he's scaring her. He's even scaring himself. She's right; it has been a long day. And now he's overwhelmed with anger, and he's worried about the kids and Jess and how this is going to impact everyone. And he doesn't want Elizabeth to run away, but he knows she might. And he can't bear to lose her again, even though he can't even fathom leaving Jess for her. And his world has been turned upside down, and the ground is shaky under his feet.

"Henry, please, calm down." Her voice is firm and steady, but there is fear there. He's scaring her, and the realization is sobering. He takes a breath. It's not deep or calming, but it's a start. He closes his eyes because, based on everything he knows now, she's a victim of this, too. Though any forgiveness, true forgiveness, may take a while for him to find. She was wrong, and she had done a terrible thing in deciding to stay gone. And the worst part is, it was avoidable. They could've been a family. It would've been hard, but they would have gotten through it. Wouldn't they have? Will they now?

"Elizabeth," He sighs. And their gazes are locked. And she can see the internal battle waging in his head. She can see the tears forming. She can see him struggling to keep his composure, and her heart aches for him. But she can't take his pain away, not when she's a cause of it. When his phone rings, they both jump, a weird, intimate moment finally interrupted and as Henry relaxes when his face looks at his phone screen, Elizabeth's old ache comes back to her chest.

"I have to take this," he says and heads to her bathroom door.

"Take your time. I'll be here," she replies, and his hand lingers on the doorknob as he watches her.

She knows her statement is ambiguous. And she hears his 'Hi, Honey' as he enters her bathroom for some privacy. And not knowing what else to do to ease the reminder that she is no longer Elizabeth the wife, that this day hasn't changed anything between them.

She stands and walks to her kitchen. She starts a pot of coffee, needing something to do. Trying to ignore Henry's muffled voice as he speaks with the woman he clearly loves. Elizabeth has spent so much time alone that she has grown used to it. She has built an impenetrable wall around her heart and her mind. But at this moment, all she can think about is how much she misses being loved. And as much as she tells herself, she doesn't need a partner. As much as she tries to convince herself, she is content.

The truth is she is lonely.

And the truth is she wants nothing more than to be loved by Henry. She thought she had buried that feeling. She thought she had given herself enough time to gain some semblance of closure. But the truth is, there was no closure. One day, she's a married mother serving a deployment, so close to getting home. And the next, her life was ripped away from her.

She's pouring herself a mug by the time he gets off the phone. She takes a sip and watches him. He leans against her door frame. His eyes are red, and she can't look him in the eyes anymore. She doesn't know why. It's too much. That's it... It's too much. They grieved the loss of each other in different circumstances and in different ways. Now, they are two different people, and they can't go back. And the tension that exists between them is that of two people who lost a piece of themselves. A piece that can never be replaced. She doesn't know what he wants her to say or do, but the air is thick, and it is almost suffocating her. And she has to do something.

"Everything okay at home?" She finally asks as she hands him a mug of black coffee. Their hands brush and it sends a shiver down her spine. His skin is warm, and his hand is calloused. It's comforting, and it reminds her of her youth.

"Yeah," he says as he accepts the mug. "Bobby got an A on his spelling test that I helped him study for; he was worried. And he wanted to tell me." there is a proud smile on his face.

"Bobby is one of the twins?" She asks, a subtle way of asking if he had more children with his wife than just the two she knows of. He nods and takes a sip.

"Yeah, Bobby and Drew. Robert and Andrew." His smile is that of an involved dad. It's beautiful. She remembers the first time that smile grazed his face. A newborn Stevie in his arms as he talked softly to her, promising the world. It's the same smile. She can see the pride, and she can feel the love radiating from him. He's such a good father.

She opens her mouth to speak, sensing it's her turn to say something, but she doesn't know what to say. She can't even try and act neutral because the only thing she feels is pain. Being separated from her kids has been the hardest thing she's ever done. And yes, it's been an act of protection and love. But it doesn't change the pain. Asking Henry for information about them opens up a wound that she has spent the last five years trying to heal. And maybe it's easier if she doesn't indulge her curiosity.

"Are they good kids?" She finally asks, and it's a loaded question. And she can see that Henry doesn't understand the gravity of the question. But it's not his fault. She's always been bad at opening up, and this is the deepest of subjects.

"The twins? Yeah, I mean, they're eight." He chuckles. And it's the same chuckle that used to make her feel warm inside. But this time, it's not comforting, and she's reminded that this isn't her world. And she almost screams, 'Those aren't the kids I'm asking about, and you know it.' But instead, she takes a calming breath and intentionally relaxes her shoulders.

"You know, I have these images in my head of Team McCord. Just almost fleeting picture of who I think they are now." She looks at the card on the counter, still blank, bought for Stevie's birthday. She agonizes over the purchases of the cards that her children will never read. Birthdays, Christmas, hell, Halloween even. Every holiday is painful, and every year, the pain doesn't lessen. But she writes the cards. And she puts them in envelopes. And she puts those sealed envelopes in letterboxes in the safe. And then she always donates items or money to a family shelter downtown. Her own little act of kindness to make sure she's caring for someone other than herself. She had wanted to be a mother. Yes, she wanted a big career and a happy marriage. But when the test had two lines with Stevie and when the positive test happened again with Allison and Jason, she had known, in the marrow of her bones, that she was supposed to be a mother.

Henry swallows. He has been so busy freaking out that he hadn't thought about this. The two of them made these three awesome kids together. And they haven't gotten to raise them together. Elizabeth's eyes are misty, and he's not surprised. This is hard. "Stevie is pre-law at Georgetown," He starts the words pouring from him without his total want. But Elizabeth needs to hear about them, and he needs to be the one to tell her. And as the words tumble, and as Elizabeth's expression shifts from pain to pride, he finds himself smiling.

"She is learning how to navigate the world. It's a lot more gray than she'd like, which isn't surprising because she's my daughter. But she cares about the world, and she wants to help people. She's on Georgetown's debate team. She looks and sounds so much like you, Elizabeth. And Allison is an artist. She's so incredibly talented. She does these awesome fashion sketches, and she won an art show at her school for them. And she sews. She literally makes her own clothes. Jason. Little smartass but so loveable. He is way too into conspiracy theories, but he is wicked smart. I mean, like, so smart it's a little scary. However, he doesn't like people to know that he slides through school without trying and plays so much XBox. Also, a new development is that he is an anarchist."

When Henry stops speaking, Elizabeth holds it together for two whole seconds. Then she starts to cry, and the tears pour from her eyes, and her body is racked with sobs, and her coffee sits abandoned on the counter, and her arms are folded tightly against her chest as she sinks to the floor. She missed it. They have had a whole life without her, and it's not fair. They have had their entire childhood, and she's missed it. She was supposed to watch her children grow up, and she hadn't. She was supposed to take care of them, and she didn't.

"They sound amazing," She chokes out, and it's true. The pain is real and palpable, and it's the hardest thing she's ever been through, but hearing the stories, knowing her children have grown up happy, well, that is what's most important.

"They're half you. They were always going to be amazing." He says, thinking the statement would provide comfort for her. And when it doesn't, and when her crying increases, he realizes his mistake. There is nothing he can say to undo her guilt. He can't help with this. She's missed their whole lives, especially in the case of Jason. He tries to imagine what that is like for her. She made a giant sacrifice and has missed every milestone and every memory. And while it has been the most selfless and brave thing she could have done, it is not fair to her. It is not fair. He wishes he had the right words, the words that would make her feel better. At a loss, he holds her hand. She accepts it and squeezes. He's thankful for that, for the connection, even if it is small and fleeting.

"You want to see a photo?" He asks. He doesn't know if it's the right move. He's not sure what she wants or what would help, but he has to do something. She nods, and he pulls his phone out. He unlocks the screen and scrolls to the DC trip photos. He doesn't have one of just the three older kids, but he has a few of all five of his kids.

He doesn't ask permission before showing her. He knows he should, but his gut tells him to proceed, and so he does. And he is relieved when she reaches for his phone, her fingers trembling slightly as her eyes drink the image. Stevie is so tall and proud. She's grown and dark blonde. And Elizabeth swears her own eyes are smiling at her. And Allison, has Henry's dark hair, and Elizabeth sees her mother in her features. But her smile is all Henry, and the way her chin is held up is all her own. Jason. Less than thrilled to be there, his smile small and fake. But Elizabeth can't help but fall in love with him. Her son. She has seen him as an infant, has held him in her arms, and fed him. But he's a grown boy. She does take a moment to study the twins Henry fathered with the redhead. They have small, crooked smiles that remind her of Shane- a person she had nearly forgotten existed. It's not like Henry's family had ever truly become her family. And her death had severed the ties even further. And now, ten years later, they have no place in each other's lives.

"They're beautiful." She whispers, handing the phone back to him. "Thank you," She says, and he's confused, but she continues. "Thank you for raising them. I'm glad I chose you to father my children. You're the best man I know, and I know you've raised them well." He's not sure if he should correct her. He's not a saint. And it's not like he's done it alone. The adoptions come to his mind. Another detail that'll break her heart. And Will, when she asks about how he's doing, he'll have to say he doesn't know because they don't talk anymore. And he doesn't know where he is. So, he stays quiet. He takes her gratitude, even though right now it feels misplaced. Everything feels misplaced. And they both wonder where any of this goes from here.