A/N: Hello! New story (depending on if you all like it/are intrigued/want more)!

You'll know by reading it pretty quickly, but this is an AU, set six years after Elizabeth and Henry graduated from UVA. There's a few deviations from the show that you'll see as I continue :-)

Hope you enjoy! (let me know if you do please because I'm not used to doing many AUs with MSec!)

The elevator felt like it slid down the shaft slower than last night, taking forever to make it down to the ground floor from her twelfth-floor hotel room. When the doors finally open, she steps out, her heel touching the hard tiles first and making a clunking noise.

She mindlessly fumbles with the button on her blazer, checking that it's closed as she makes her way to the revolving door and out into the concrete jungle of New York City. "Taxi!" She yells, sticking her hand up as a yellow cab goes by.

Her hand is in her pocket, wrapped around her index cards that she's using to present on at the Military-Intelligence Cooperation Summit, or "MICS" as everyone has been calling it. Isabelle was supposed to come with her, but now her twelfth-floor room is housing only herself because Isabelle had come down with the flu before their plane left out of Washington Dulles.

Finally, she gets a cab to stop. "Columbia University, please," she says to the driver from the backseat, and he nods, speeding off from the curb as she looks back at her hotel doors one more time and takes a deep breath.

You've given this presentation a thousand times, she tells herself, closing her eyes and realizing her shoulders are up around her ears. She slides her hand from her pockets and goes through the index cards again as if she didn't just do it right before she left her room five minutes ago.

Reading over her first points, her eyes dart back to the title: "From Coercion to Cooperation: Rethinking the Future of Interrogation." Her bottom lip squeezes between her teeth, I wish I would've changed it.

She glances up out the windshield and taps her index cards against her leg as the driver continues their journey to Columbia, and she looks around at the city stretching out in front of her and all the people around. On one of the giant billboards, her eyes latch onto the faces of President Clinton and Vice President Gore. "Re-Elect Clinton & Gore 1996." She sighs a little and tucks her cards back into her pocket, thinking of how her home of D.C. will be a madhouse again this fall during the election.

For now, though, she has a few months until it's too wild.

The car rolls to a stop again and she looks out, looking right at Columbia University this time. She pays the taxi driver and thanks him, and then she steps out onto the hot New York City sidewalk, fixing her blazer quickly as she's walking up the sidewalk and toward the university.

Her eyes are fixed downward on the podium as people file into the conference room, and in the back of her mind, she's wondering just how many people were going to be able to fit into this room. Did anyone attend the other sessions? She thinks to herself as she fumbles with the projector now, doing her last-minute prep for the presentation she has readied. She glances up a the crowd, a mix of people in military uniforms and people dressed like she is in business casual. Some people look overdressed, some look underdressed, but all of them look like people who didn't necessarily want to be here.

She checks her watch as she slides her sleeve up, swallowing thick when she sees that it's 9:59. Glancing up again, she sees the back doors closing, and then one of the conference directors are walking up the aisle and smiling at her.

"You must be Elizabeth Adams," she says calmly, walking up to Elizabeth with a microphone in her hand.

Elizabeth eyes it for a moment and then nods, "I am," she says, "Do I need to wear a mic?"

"Well," the woman says, "Oh, by the way, I'm Tammy Hunter," she says quickly, extending her hand for Elizabeth to shake with a warm smile, "I would definitely recommend the mic since the room is pretty full and large. That way—"

"I don't do well with mics." Elizabeth murmurs, "But I'll go ahead." She adds when she sees Tammy make a little face.

She starts attaching it to Elizabeth as her eyes dart back to the back wall, looking at the clock ticking back there. 10:01.

Tammy jerks her around a few times until she finally gets the microphone pack clipped onto the back of Elizabeth's pants, and Elizabeth just stands there uncomfortably as the mix of people are staring back at her. "You're all set," she finally hears, and then Elizabeth takes a deep breath and grabs her index cards from the podium.

"Good morning, everyone," she says, trying to calm herself as she smiles at the crowd, listening back for people saying "good morning" to her, but no one does. They all are just half smiling, some are sniffling or shifting in their seats.

She clears her throat. Tough crowd, she thinks. "My name is Elizabeth Adams, and I have been an Intelligence Analyst with the CIA for six years." She begins, laying the cards down momentarily and stepping out from behind the podium, leaning on it a little with her left arm.

"In my role with the CIA, I have worked closely with our interrogators, as well as done much research on the interrogation practices within the CIA. I've worked with our now-director, Conrad Dalton, on research involving the ethics of coercion, and also worked closely with Isabelle Barnes, a colleague, on this once Mr. Dalton became the director." She explains, now picking up her cards and glancing at her points before walking back behind the podium.

"I would like to start today by—" she glances up at the crowd again, and when she does, she squints at one of the members in the sea of people. Her mouth opens, hanging there for a moment before she slams it shut, blinking a few times. Is that who I think it is?

She clears her throat, looking down at her cards again and taking a steadying breath, "I would like to start today by talking about the research findings first in our study conducted on a control group, done in partnership with the ethics department at the University of Virginia." She goes on to explain how she became interested in interrogation tactics first, and then moves on into her methodology and how she came to work with UVA and their ethics department.

On accident, she lets herself look into the crowd at the same spot again, and she panics once more and loses her place. She looks down, I haven't seen him in years.

She thumbs at the cards for a moment before clearing her voice twice, the first time seemingly insufficient, "Our study at the University of Virginia focused on ethical boundaries in interrogation techniques. We compared both the outcomes and long-term effects of traditional coercive methods versus non-coercive methods, focusing specifically on rapport-based techniques, cultural sensitivity, and psychological factors."

Focus, Elizabeth. She grits her teeth as she flips to the next card, then puts up her statistics on the projector, "Ultimately, we found that interrogators who employed techniques focused on empathy, understanding, and psychological rapport were able to obtain more valuable intelligence, with fewer instances of false confessions and fewer psychological damages to those being interrogated," Elizabeth says, her words now flowing more easily as she gets into her groove.

"We also found that the application of these methods in real-world operations resulted in higher compliance from detainees, who often cooperated more freely once they were treated with respect." She pauses and her eyes dart straight to him. Damn it. What is he doing here? He must be back stateside. I wonder how long he's been here, and why is he at this—well, it's military, too. He must have moved up rank. Of course he moved up rank, Elizabeth, he's been in the Marines for six years.

She blinks and comes back to reality, remembering that she is, indeed, giving a presentation in front of a large crowd of people who are now becoming uncomfortable at the amount of silence she's given them. She looks at them and smiles, "I'm sorry about that, my cards are a bit out of order," she lies, wanting to roll her eyes at herself for making such a pathetic excuse for being unprofessional. You're better than this, Elizabeth. You're not going to lose your mind just because he's here, just because it's been years since you last spoke.

"One of the key findings of our research was that coercion may yield immediate results, but in the long run, it erodes trust, damages relationships, and often leads to detrimental fallout." She continues finally, tucking the hair back behind her ear that had fallen out of her ponytail. "We need to consider the future," she says, her voice gaining the Elizabeth-strength again, sounding like she should be up here after all. "In an era where intelligence must be gathered quickly and accurately, the cost of coercive methods is far too high. Not just in human terms, but in practical ones. The international reputation of our country, the stability of our alliances—all of these are threatened by the use of ethically questionable methods." This is you, she thinks, yet her hand tremors as she reaches for the projector to go to her next set of statistics.

She squeezes her hand into a fist and releases it, clearing her throat quietly. She looks up at the screen behind her and places her hands behind her back, latching her hand around her wrist, "What we learned from this study is that interrogation practices must evolve," she concludes, making herself look back into the audience again, but this time avoiding anyone in a military uniform. "The time for coercion is over," she says, "The future demands cooperation, humanity, and most of all," she pauses, her eyes darting to Henry, "Trust."

She peels her eyes away from him again and gives a warm smile to the others, "Thank you," she says, giving a curt nod as the audience begins clapping, "Are there any questions?"

Per usual, the crowd lingers for a while, and someone asks a cheap question, and then another, and Elizabeth answers to the best of her ability. After a few minutes of that, she dismisses the crowd, and she checks the clock to see that it's 10:45. Perfectly timed, Adams.

She goes back to the podium after the people start filing out of the door, and she gathers her index cards up that she'd piled to the side loosely after reading off each of them. Finally, her heart is pounding at a normal rate again, the adrenaline slowing down and wearing off.

"Elizabeth."

The sound of her name causes her to drop the index cards as she was trying to slide them into her pocket, and they sprawl out all over the floor and her foot. She hadn't heard him approach the podium, and when she looks up from her cards all over the floor, she sees him in his Marine uniform, his hat tucked underneath his arm.

The air in her lungs seems to disappear, and she leans over to pick up the cards, "Henry," she says as she's down there, and when she comes back up she looks at him again, "You startled me," she says, her tone not quite the way she wants it to be. It's a mix of surprise and something else she can't quite identify.

Her mind swirls with memories of the last time she'd seen him. She was twenty-two, and she'd just broken his heart with one simple word, and then a few more: "No, Henry, I can't marry you."

They were in the front seat of his truck the night before graduation, and he sat up straight and looked at her.

"Is this because of the Marines still?" He'd asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and sat up, too. "It's just…it's dominating everything, Henry. I want to be CIA. You've known that." She said, "I can't just…I can't give that all up. They want me. They want to give me a job. You heard Conrad yourself."

"He's just a recruiter, Elizabeth!" Henry almost yelled, something he never did usually, "You—"

"Henry." She stopped him, "I want to be CIA. Our life can continue after you finish with the Marines."

It was final, the way she said it. And when he took her home that night, he'd told her goodbye and asked, right after he'd turned to leave, if she was serious. She said she was, and he told her that he wouldn't be seeing her tomorrow. And she didn't—he skipped graduation and left a day early for basic, making the journey to where they were all supposed to leave from without even saying goodbye one more time to her.

He'd been so adamant about her following him, whether it was to foreign military bases or to wherever he was stationed. But it was clear to her, finally, that he believed their life could work together only if they focused on his career, not hers. He'd said she didn't need to work—they had the military.

But the CIA was her dream, and she wasn't giving it up.

"Sorry," he says, "Didn't mean to."

She tucks her cards into her pocket and clears her throat a little, looking at him and taking in his uniform. "Still a Marine I see."

"Still CIA I see." He counters quickly.

She nods, but before she can say anything, he's shifting on his feet and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"How have you been?" He asks.

She shrugs, "I've been good," she says, eyeing him. He looks so different—he looks like a grown man now, not just a kid who had joined the Marines to piss his dad off. "I've been doing a lot of research with the CIA, but this is going to be the last bit I get to do because I'm being pulled to do some heavier intelligence work." She admits, thinking about her tasks now that she's about to be hit with involving the Cold War.

"Seems like you've done really well for yourself," he says, and she realizes then that he was looking at her fingers. She tucks her hands into her blazer pockets, fumbling with her cards and begging herself to not look around the podium at his fingers, though they're shoved in his pockets, too. "CIA." He breathes, a smile coming to his face, "You really made a name for yourself."

"Yes," she breathes back, "I did." She says, swallowing hard, "And you? How have you been?" She finally asks.

He nods, pulling his hands from his pockets and folding his arms around his chest. She gets a glance at his fingers—no ring. "I've been good," he says, "I've been captain now for a while, and I'm about to be teaching part time at the University of Virginia in your ethics department this fall semester."

She snorts, "It's not my ethics department," she corrects, "We've just done a lot of work with them." She says. I'm glad I won't be researching anymore, she thinks to herself, I can't work side by side with you. Not anymore.

Suddenly, she feels self-conscious, and she tucks her hair behind her ear again and wishes that she'd have worn something red. She always feels more confident in red, but she wore gray instead underneath her black blazer, tucking it into her black pants, feeling more professional in the tones.

"I didn't expect you to be here," it stumbles out of her mouth before she means for it to, especially since he was about to answer her and, most likely, say something about the ethics job. She shakes her head, "Sorry to interrupt you, I just…you weren't someone I expected in this session." She says.

He shrugs a little and smirks, "What can I say?" He asks, "When I saw your name, I knew I wanted to attend the session."

Her heart flutters, and she shoves her hands back down into her pockets a little too aggressively. He's here because of me, she thinks, he's here because he saw my name. She takes a deep breath, he's here on business. He's a captain now, he's moved on to bigger and better things, Elizabeth. He has the career he's always wanted, and so do you.

She clears her throat again, "I—" she says, cutting herself off when her own voice cracks, "I should probably head out. I needed to try to get to that 11:00 session…" she says, reaching for the projector and turning it off, though she doesn't even know if she's supposed to. "It was nice seeing you again, Henry, really, and I'm glad you made captain," she says, "I know it was a dream of yours."

"And I know it was a dream of yours to do this," he says, looking out at the now-empty seats.

She swallows thick and starts to walk down the aisle, but he grabs her wrist and startles her again, causing her to whip around and look at his hand. "You forgot your mic." He says softly, and she looks down at the wire wrapping around from her hip and stretching upward to her ear.

Reaching back, she grabs the pack from her pants and unhooks it from her ear, and then wraps the cord up and sets everything down on the podium.

As she turns again toward the doors, he clears his throat, "I just—" he stops, and she looks back at him as she clutches onto her papers in her pocket, "I just wanted to say it was really nice seeing you," he says, and his voice sounds like it's the hardest thing he's had to say in years.

She swallows hard, looking at him as he watches her carefully, his face asking her if she's going to bolt. I might, she thinks to herself.

"You look great," he adds, and then her heart is pounding in her throat, and then in her entire body. "I, um…I'd like to—"

"Henry…" she breathes, and his eyes latch onto hers sympathetically. She shakes her head slightly, her lips parted just barely as she tries to gather the words to say without hurting him too badly again. Even after six years, she can see the stinger she implanted in his heart that night before graduation. "Nothing's changed, except we both have careers that take a lot of our time." She says softly.

He nods, "I know, I know," he says, shaking it off literally as he shakes his head and his hand at the same time, waving some imaginary bad juju off. "I just…I'd like to catch up while we're both in town. I'm currently up at West Point," he explains, and she watches as he grows more uncomfortable with each word, "But I'm going to be here all weekend. I'd just like to get a coffee or something, maybe, and we can—"

"What's the point in dredging up old bones, Henry?" She asks, her voice shaking too much when she says it, and it makes her grit her teeth.

He shrugs, "Because I want to know what's gone on in your life for the past six years," he admits, and suddenly, he looks like that boy who joined the Marines to piss his father off all those years ago. He looks small, like his uniform is about to swallow him, though moments before he looked like he had muscles enough to bust out of the shoulder seams.

She takes a deep breath and looks toward the doors, eyeing the clock. 10:57. I'm not making the 11:00 session. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?" She asks, "My friend Isabelle—the one I talked about—" she explains, realizing he doesn't know who her friends are anymore, "She was supposed to come with me to this conference, and we had made dinner reservations for tonight. But then she got the flu, and I'd planned on just going alone, but I suppose now that you're asking to catch up that I can let you tag along."

A smile creeps onto his face slowly, and then he finally nods, "When and where?"

She tells him the name of the restaurant, "6:30," she says, "And it's nothing fancy—it's just a quaint little French bistro. We just wanted to make sure we could get in somewhere on a Friday night in the City." She explains, the smile he's giving her making her a little too uncomfortable as she remembers the way he looked so hurt the night he dropped her off at home for the last time.

"Do you want to walk there with me?" He asks softly, taking her by surprise, "I mean—that is, if you're staying in the conference's hotel."

She sighs, "I am," she admits after a moment of trying to decide if she wanted to lie to him. She rubs her hand along her arm, scratching mindlessly as she stares past him for a moment, "Meet me downstairs at 6:10, okay? We'll take a cab."