A/N: Hello! Here's a little longer update, a normal-sized one :)

Hope you enjoy!

Finally, life moved on, but with them together.

The past two weeks were filled with conversations in bed—his bed because they'd decided his apartment was bigger and they should go there more rather than Elizabeth's place—and stolen kisses in his kitchen while he cooked and she handed him ingredients.

She brought her toothbrush over yesterday and left it in his bathroom, right next to his in the holder. She realized, too, that they use the same toothpaste.

Just because the nights were filled with sweat and bliss and kisses and moans didn't mean that they also weren't filled with his nightmares and his scraping at the sheets while she tries to get him to wake. She'd hoped that him learning about the reports would help ease the nightmares, but it hadn't seemed to yet—though he does wake easier these days from those nightmares instead of being so groggy and confused.

Still, she started to see more glimpses throughout their mornings and evenings and weekends of the Henry she'd always known—the one who kissed her just because he wanted to or held her hand in the car. That little glimmer wasn't fully back yet, but there were more moments than not when she felt like this was the Henry McCord she'd always loved.

And still…loves.

Henry had put in his notice with the Marines and accepted the job in the Religion department, teaching full time while also teaching one ethics class. He was already in the middle of the semester, so the dean had him working on various tasks that needed to be done in the department rather than teaching, and he continued with his part-time class load in the ethics department while using any free time to fill out the paperwork for Georgetown.

Some nights he would be so focused, sitting at his kitchen table while she dried dishes and scoured through cabinets to find where they go (but she's recently not had to search so hard), that she would giggle at him with his brow so furrowed and his pencil so tight in his hand.

When she saw him like that, though, she felt a tug at her heart—she'd missed this side of him. The academic, the man who always was deep in thought yet also still present and active in the happenings around him, the man with a mind like a steel trap who could answer any question about Aquinas or Augustine or meaning or morality. For the first time in what she figures is a long time—six years—he's making plans that didn't include a deployment.

Though her test had been negative that night when she'd called Henry in a panic, she hadn't felt totally secure until her body told her that it for sure wasn't pregnant. When she got that sign, she breathed a sigh of relief. The whole moment was sobering, to say the least. Kids just weren't in the cards for them. She hadn't brought it up again at all, and neither had he, but his words about hoping she was pregnant still appeared in her head from time to time.

This morning, now, she watches him from across the kitchen table as he scribbles on his Georgetown application and is nearing the end. His eyes flick up to hers, and she grips onto her coffee mug with a little smile. It was chilly this morning—a mid-September Sunday—and the warmth felt nice on her fingers.

"What?" She asks, unable to keep her smile from turning into a mischievous smirk.

His thick hair is still a little damp from the shower they'd shared only an hour ago. The pancake plates still set near the sink, the leftover syrup and tiny pancake crumbs left untouched. Her coffee is steaming upwards, warming her face as she hovers her hands in the air with the mug.

God, she thinks to herself, sipping on her coffee with both hands, he's so handsome.

"Why are you looking at me?" He asks, his own smirk rising on his lips.

She shrugs innocently and sips once more at her drink, crossing her legs and leaning against the table. "Just watching you," she coos, "You look excited." Her eyes flick down to the paper in front of him.

He looks down, too, and he nods. "I'm finishing the little touches on my writing sample," he says, "I'll have to type it out, but I wanted to do it by hand first."

"That's your essay?" She asks incredulously.

He looks at her with a raised brow, "Yeah?" He says, his voice showing his confusion as well as the rest of his face.

"You wrote it out?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't that, like, a fifteen-page essay?"

"Yeah?"

She wants to groan at him. Always the overachiever. Yet, she too probably would've handwritten hers if she were doing this because she'd want to do it before typing to get her thoughts all down on the page. She doesn't think as well while typing, too.

Instead of giving into her desire to bully him about being a nerd, she just drinks her coffee and looks away out the window at the gray, chilly morning outside. She hears him scribbling away again at his paper, and she lets herself think about how nice it is to share a morning with someone—share a breakfast with someone, even. She hadn't felt that in so long.

His pencil scratching the paper makes her feel warm as it fills the quiet of his kitchen. It reminds her of the late nights in college she'd spent with him in the library, up studying before big tests or big papers. They were always surrounded by so many books, so many coffee cups. His work always took him a little deeper—hers was difficult, but her work was where she had to use her brain the most, not in school. He was always deep in theory and theology that she never completely tried to wrap her head around. She wasn't ever sure she could wrap her head around it even if she had tried.

But they'd always manage to find little moments like this where they share a look, a smile, a chuckle, or even a sympathetic glance.

"Are you happy?" It rolls out of her mouth so fast, no filter and no speed bump even.

He pops his head up and looks at her, "What?"

She starts to recoil, take it back and lie about what she'd said just in case he really did hear her. But she looks down in her coffee cup—almost empty—and she twists her lips. "Are you happy?" She asks again with much less confidence.

There's a roll of thunder in the distance and it startles her—she hadn't realized the gray meant rain today. She looks up out the window again, but there's no precipitation yet.

"Yes," he breathes, looking right at her when she looks at him again, "I'm…I am very happy." He admits.

Her heart soars, and she does a slight nod before sipping the rest of her coffee down.

"Are you?" He asks.

She nods, setting her cup down and leaning back in her chair, "I am," she says, no doubt in her voice at all.

She's happy he's here. She's happy he's at this table with her. She's happy he's happy. She's happy he made her banana pancakes this morning. She's happy they conserved his water bill by showering together this morning. She's happy that she left his bed completely spent already this morning.

She's happy.

He waits a moment, letting it sink in, it seems, before smiling. "Good," he whispers.

They fall into a comfortable silence again as he goes back to scratching his pencil against the paper, and she finds herself breathing slowly and listening to that sweet sound while watching him write with fervor.

Finally, she picks up her cup and takes it to the sink, "Is it okay if I check my email on your computer?" She asks.

"Of course," he murmurs, not looking up at her. His tongue is sticking out the side of his mouth—she knows he's onto something good.

So she doesn't say anything else to him, she just walks past him and into the guest bedroom where he keeps his desktop computer. She turns it on, the loud, obnoxious noise of the dial-up starting, and she opens her personal email—they couldn't access their CIA emails without secure servers. She glances through briefly, deleting the junk that consumed her inbox. She gets to one from Conrad and pauses, thinking it's a bit weird for him to message her personal address.

"Bess,

I wanted to give you the good news before I saw you at work Monday, and before you got the chance to read your company email. You've officially been promoted to the position we talked about.

There's no one who deserves it more.

Congratulations, we'll talk more Monday.

Conrad"

Her heart is up in her throat, pounding to get out. She re-reads the email what feels like ninety times, and she realizes that it really is true. He gave her the promotion. She rushes back into the kitchen, not before tripping over the office chair and almost faceplanting, "I got the promotion!" She yelps, startling Henry.

He looks up at her, pencil still in hand, "You got it?" He asks, his eyes widening.

"I got it!" She says, trying to not sound like a schoolgirl but failing anyway. "I got the Middle East desk, Henry!"

He plops his pencil down immediately and smiles, rushing over to her and hugging her tight. "I'm so proud of you," he whispers, and it hits her.

This is the moment they could've had every time something good happened in either of their lives. But instead, they'd spent the last six years apart.

"You deserve this, Elizabeth," he whispers into her shoulder, his lips touching her neck, "You have worked so hard."

"I know," she whispers back, holding tight to him.

He holds onto her for a few more moments before pulling away and kissing her, then looking into her eyes like he's seen a ghost. It startles her, too, and she studies him for a moment to try to figure out what was going on. She opens her mouth, but she's unsure what to say and closes it again.

He's looking at her lips now, and then back up into her eyes, "I love you," he whispers to her.

Her eyes dart from eye to eye, "You do?" She whispers.

He swallows hard and nods, taking a shaky breath and holding onto her elbows loosely. "I don't know how I ever let us be apart like I did, I should've—"

"I love you too," she breathes out, looking at him carefully as he gets over the shock of being interrupted from his rambling. "I love you, Henry," she whispers.

He kisses her immediately, a slow, passionate kiss that replaced their hungry kisses this morning.

After a few moments, they pull away, and she looks at him lazily, "Do you ever wonder what could've been?" She whispers.

"Almost every day of my life," Henry replies quietly, resting his forehead on hers with a sigh. He bends his neck and kisses her head. "Things probably wouldn't have been so…so hard." He admits, rubbing her back before pulling himself away and walking back over to his chair.

She watches and folds her arms, standing in place, "I don't regret it," she admits, her face scrunching when she says it. "It's not that I don't…I just…I think we needed it, you know?" She asks, "I think we needed to grow up and figure it out first. Maybe we could've done that together, but I don't know, Henry—I think we would've clashed."

He looks down at his paper and stays silent for too long, and she finally comes over and sits down across from him, sighing too.

Just as she's about to say something else to him, steer them off this topic, there's a knock on the door. Henry looks up and Elizabeth does too, "Are you expecting someone?" She asks.

"No," he answers, scooting his chair out slowly and standing up. She watches as he walks to his apartment door—she can see it clearly from her spot at the table.

It's Sunday, she thinks, who could possibly be knocking on a Sunday if not someone he knows?

Looking at him over her shoulder, she sees him open the door, "Captain McCord," the man says.

Elizabeth eyes him quickly. He's tall, his shoulders are broad like he lifts a lot of weights. He stands with an air of authority, like he's used to people obeying his presence. His large, bald head shines from the kitchen light, and he has an earpiece in.

At first, she panics—he must be CIA. But then she thinks about that and wonders why, first, she would have any need to panic. The files. Second, she wonders why they'd know she was here. Because Henry was in those files.

Shit. I'm in trouble.

She watches with much more unease as Henry talks. "Who's asking?" he replies, but Elizabeth laughs at this in her head—he wasn't asking, he was stating it.

But she also notes that Henry's body language becomes defensive—the man isn't Marines, she thinks. He would've announced himself as that by now.

I'm definitely in trouble.

Henry folds his arms over his chest, and from the back, he looks like a captain in the Marine Corps.

"I need to speak with you privately," he says, and his eyes dart around Henry and over to Elizabeth. She freezes in her chair, staring at him until he moves his eyes back to Henry.

"My girlfriend is here," Henry says, and Elizabeth loses all her worry for a moment to perk up with those words. I'm his girlfriend. They hadn't even discussed labels—not really. She'd just told him she didn't want to be labeled as fuck buddy, for one. But they never have talked over the last few weeks about what they are instead.

"Elizabeth Adams," the man says, and it makes her jump back into reality again and her breath catch in her throat.

She stands up, her legs feeling wobbly though she keeps her back straight as she walks to Henry's side, "I don't recognize you," she says.

"You wouldn't," he answers.

"Then how do you know who I am?" She asks, feeling Henry's arm wrap around her. It makes her want to melt if this man weren't in front of her and intimidating her, even though she's trying to not let it show.

The man doesn't answer her, but instead looks back at Henry, "We need to speak with you privately," he says.

"Who's we?"

"Captain McCord," the man's voice sounds like a threat.

Henry exchanges a glance with Elizabeth, and she takes a breath.

We're both combat trained, she thinks, sliding away from his side slowly as they both give each other that knowing look. They're thinking the same things. "I'll just be in the bedroom," she says, giving Henry one more quick look after eyeing the man one last time.

Once she turns toward his bedroom, she hears the door shutting behind the man, hears his footsteps against Henry's hardwood flooring and the creaks that lead into the kitchen. The bedroom door closes loudly so that she lets them know she's inside, but she carefully presses her ear against the door and shuts her eyes, trying as hard as she can to listen in.

Mostly to make sure that Henry is not in trouble, that he is okay.

That he doesn't need backup.

It's not a long conversation at all, but she couldn't hear any of it clear enough to make out what the man wanted. But she does jump whenever she hears the front door close again, and then she hears footsteps coming to the bedroom. She rips the door open quickly, prepared to fight, but Henry is standing there with wide eyes and his hands up.

"Whoa there," he murmurs.

She sighs loudly and runs her palm across her forehead, "I didn't know what was going on," she breathes, opening her eyes and looking at him pointedly, "What was that all about?"

She's trying to sound calm, trying to let her heartbeat go back to normal, but she also feels a bead of sweat starting to form at her nape. Her eyes dart toward the door and make sure it's locked, and when she sees it is, she looks at Henry again and awaits his response.

Though the man is gone and Henry is standing in front of her, he looks shell-shocked, like a deer in headlights. Surely I didn't startle him that much. There's an eerie feeling in the room, overall, and it makes a chill run through her body and mix with that sweat trying to form.

"I don't really know," he finally answers, blinking as though he just remembered he were alive. "He just said that we needed to talk about a private matter and that I needed to come to this building at 0800 tomorrow." He says, handing her the card that she hadn't noticed was in his hands.

She looks down at the card, "Henry," she breathes, "This is just an address."

He shakes his head, "He seems serious."

She swallows thick and without saying anything, brushes by him and to his phone. She picks it up and dials Isabelle's number—one she's remembered off the top of her head. "Isabelle," she breathes, "Hey, no, I'm okay." Isabelle's concern came rattling through the other end before Elizabeth really had a second to think.

"God, you scared me," Isabelle says. "Why are you calling me from some random number?"

"It's Henry's," she says, her voice becoming slightly shy. She'd told Isabelle about being back with Henry off and on, but she hadn't told her the depth of it all yet. At this point, she'd lead her on to thinking that they were kind of just…a fling.

"Oh," Isabelle says, though there's a hint of amusement in her tone. "Then what's this all about?"

"Are you at work?"

"I'm so predictable," Isabelle whines, extra sarcasm tinged throughout. "What do you need?"

"I need you to look up this address, but no questions asked, okay?" Elizabeth knows she sounds cryptic, and she even shuts her eyes and cringes. If she were in Isabelle's position, she'd probably say no. But maybe if Isabelle was asking her, she'd consider it.

"Okay," Isabelle says cautiously, her voice low. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Elizabeth?"

"No," she says softly, "I'm just…I need to look at this for Henry," she says, "Would you mind?"

"What's the address?"

Elizabeth tells her what it is and Isabelle's fingers are overheard tapping away on the keyboard. Elizabeth is always amazed at how fast Isabelle types, and this is no exception. "You sure this isn't for you?" She asks again after a lull, silence filling the other end of the conversation.

"What?" Elizabeth asks, "No, it's not. Why do you ask?"

Isabelle clears her throat, "It's the NSA."

Elizabeth looks at Henry who's staring at her now, has been standing behind her this entire time and almost breathing down her back. She looks up into his eyes and mouths "N-S-A" carefully, "Thanks Isabelle," she says into the phone again, "Make sure to get yourself a lunch break," she reminds.

"Make sure to get some good dick for me." Isabelle says.

Elizabeth's eyes widen and she looks at Henry, her cheeks reddening when he is smiling. He must be able to hear. "I'll see you tomorrow," Elizabeth says and quickly hangs up.

She puts the phone back on the base and turns to face him, crossing her arms over her chest and wondering if she should address the comment.

"NSA," he murmurs, making her decision easy.

"What's that about?" She asks nervously, not intending to sound so uneasy but her voice is shaking a little when she says it.

He shakes his head and walks over to the table, more unbothered than she is, clearly. "I don't know," he says, "I just need to finish this application."

He's sitting down and she's watching him with her brow furrowed, "Henry," she breathes in frustration, "This isn't about the application, obviously. Or about Georgetown or UVA." She says, "Do you think it's about the Marines?"

"Why would it be about that?" He asks, his voice far away as he picks up his pencil.

She looks at him for a few moments, tucking her arms around her tightly. He's distancing himself. She swallows thick and remembers all that he's been going through mentally, and she lets her shoulders relax just a little. "Something's off," she says softly, walking over to the table and standing by him, "Don't you think so too? He just showed up and left without really saying anything other than to tell you to meet him at that spot."

"He didn't say to meet him," Henry says, writing some words down.

"Henry," she says more forcefully.

He drops the pencil and looks up at her with a slight amount of irritation, "I don't know, Elizabeth," he says, "I don't know any more than you do."

"Do you promise?" She asks.

They stare at each other for a few long moments. She'd had this uneasy feeling in her gut all morning that this felt too perfect, and that something would come crashing down like always when it came to Henry. And maybe this is it—maybe he can't be trusted after all.

"Are you accusing me of something?" He asks, his voice sounding hurt.

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, turning away to pace the floor a few times, "I don't know, Henry," she breathes finally, looking at him again from a few steps away.

"I'm not holding anything back," he says calmly, his demeanor suddenly changing.

She swallows thick, "You promise that?"

He takes a deep breath, lowering his head, "I promise."

She looks away and thinks, trying to wrack her brain to understand what could possibly be going on. Does this have something to do with my promotion? Why would the NSA be involved in Henry's life, or in mine? None of this makes sense.

"Just…" she whispers, uncrossing her arms and looking at him again, "Just promise me you'll be careful, okay?"

"I promise," he says, looking at her with seriousness before going back to his paper.

The day carried on without another hitch—Henry finished his paper, Elizabeth proofread it and told him she had no idea what he was talking about but that it sounded good, and then she read while Henry typed away at the keyboard to transcribe his writing into an electronic version.

When she was reading, a thought occurred to her: I haven't enjoyed a Sunday like this in…years.

And as the day slowly shifted into night, they'd fallen into what had become their normal routine over the past two weeks. They cooked dinner—Henry cooking, Elizabeth ingredient-grabbing or cutting vegetables—and they ate together. They took a little walk down his street hand in hand, though she had to borrow his sweatshirt because the temperature had dropped so much.

On their way back to the apartment, he looked over at her, "Do you want to stay the night again?" He asks.

She looks up and gives him a little smile, "Sure," she whispers as though she hadn't been hoping he'd ask that this entire walk. She never just wants to assume.

They walk up to his second-floor apartment and get inside, and they slowly start their nighttime routine now—she brushes her teeth next to him, he takes his clothes off and she trades her clothes for one of his tees. Tonight she also opts for a pair of his sweatpants. They climb in the bed together as though they're a married couple who's done this for years, and everything about it just feels right to Elizabeth as she's pulling the blanket up over her.

She feels Henry's hand sliding across her stomach and she bites her lip, "Your side is over there, mister." She says, her voice low and her eyes avoiding his to keep from giggling.

"What if I like your side better?" He asks, raising his brow and looking down at her.

This time she can't avoid his eye contact, and she smirks at him. "What are you going to do on my side?" She asks.

He bites his lip this time and slides his hand down the front of her stomach, into the waistband of his pants that she's wearing, only stopping once he's between her legs.

She's trying to not gasp for air, trying to keep her cool.

"I have some ideas," he says, and then she loses all her cool and gasps for air anyway.

"Well in that case," she murmurs, "I suppose it won't hurt to share my side with you," she says, her brow flicking up as she tries to keep herself from squirming already underneath his magical little touches. Her mind is wanting to pull her away and think about the NSA again, but she's fighting with it.

And then his finger slides inside her and she moans, her head pushing back into the pillow before his lips come and cover hers to keep her quieter. He doesn't have next door neighbors, but they did get a knock on the ceiling from the downstairs neighbor a few nights ago when she screamed a little too loud.

And she doesn't think about the NSA anymore, she doesn't even really remember her name except when he says it, when it rolls off his lips like a promise. Only then, when she hears his voice saying those four syllables that she's known her entire life does she remember it's hers, only when he says it.

And he does say it, he moans it and she moans his. By the time they finish, she hadn't needed the sweatpants after all, nor the tee. All she needed was him to warm her up, and then he held her in his arms after.

She looks up at him as she feels her eyelids getting heavier, "Henry?" She whispers.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Why don't you ever hold onto me when you sleep?" She'd noticed it two nights ago—she always fell asleep with his arms around her or at least near her, but when she'd wake, he was turned over on his other side away from her with his hands tucked up underneath his face.

He swallows thick and she hears his teeth grit a little, "I don't want to hurt you," he admits.

She frowns, craning her head to look at him, "What do you mean 'hurt me'?"

He shrugs just barely, "I'm afraid I'll hit you or punch you or something," he admits, "So I just…"

"Hold onto me tonight," she whispers, feeling a little more bold than maybe she should've. "Maybe it'll keep your nightmares at bay."

"Or I'll strangle you in your sleep," he whispers.

"You're not going to," she breathes, her voice barely audible as she gets sleepier and sleepier.

And when she woke up that night, he still had his arms around her, and he was snoring so sweetly.