A/N: Hello! This is the last chapter of Sixth Year, can you believe it?! (Also, I haven't forgotten my other stories, just am super busy with school this semester and teaching!)

Thank you for coming along on this ride with me as it's something a little different than I'm used to writing. I really enjoyed doing it though. I will have to take a tiny break from writing here and there for this semester, but overall I plan on being back soon.

Enjoy!

One year later

The cool September breeze blows the curtains away from the wall, pushing them into a dancing fit of sheer and light green. She stands in the sunlight, looking out at the D.C. streets below, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand. This breeze carried the faintest hint of autumn, and she closes her eyes and breathes it in.

She took a slow sip of coffee, careful to not spill when the heat reaches her lips. She almost sighs at the contentedness of the liquid sliding down her throat and warming her chest, but instead she smiles when she hears Henry's voice down the hall.

This was their life now—a year after they'd managed to finally find their way back to each other. After the sixth year, they were finally together.

Still, she marvels at how quickly everything seemed to fall into place. It had been as though something were waiting for them—not time, however, much time had passed in those six years. They had to relearn each other, but it came naturally to them, maybe even more naturally than it did the first time. They were more aware of who they were as individuals, though they never made that connection specifically. They just knew what they liked and didn't like, and most importantly, how to communicate a little better.

A little.

They still fought. They still sometimes slammed doors and would go to the spare room or lie down on the couch while the other holed away in the spare bedroom turned-office. But the important thing was that they never went to sleep without telling each other they loved the other, and usually, they were over it by the next morning. Whatever "it" was.

Occasionally it would drag on for a few days, but they still managed to mumble a "love you" as they crawled into the bed.

And that was, of course, after she'd moved into his apartment. Her apartment lease was supposed to end in December last year, but she'd broken it a month early; paying the small fee to do so was worth it in her mind. His apartment was closer to Langley—not by much, but enough to make it logical in her mind.

After all, she needed to do this because of logic. Not because she wanted to live with him.

It was all logic. Until, of course, it wasn't—it was logic she was trying to use when all it really was: her heart speaking for her.

So she kept telling herself it was logic.

And then a month of living together had gone by, and she thought that it really might have been the logical decision to just move in together. He was relatively easy to live with—she'd found herself thinking one evening how much easier he is than Ben to cohabitate with. Of course she kept it to herself, but she realized that Henry always picks up his dirty clothes except sometimes in the bathroom (something she's guilty of too from time to time). He always did his half of the cleaning without even saying a word—in fact, he was glad to have her take half off his plate.

He cooked all the time, too. She had made one pot of spaghetti not long after moving in because it was his birthday, and she didn't want him to have to cook. They ended up going out to eat instead.

And then, suddenly, it was just one week until Christmas. It seemed like it had just been yesterday when they were out for that first dinner in New York City, but then they were talking about how Christmas would be a great time to reintroduce her to his parents, to his family. And then it was settled: she was going home with him for Christmas.

Her stomach had been in knots ever since they'd decided on it that second week of December.

"I think it's time, babe," Henry had said when he was getting in the bed, "I can't keep lying to my mom—you know she deserves better than that."

She'd sighed as she pulled the blanket up around her chest, reaching over to turn her lamp off. "But what if it ruins it all?" She asked finally, the thought gnawing at her for much too long.

He'd assured her that it wouldn't ruin anything, that they would still be together even if Patrick McCord threw one of his famous fits. He also joked about being sober this time, something about how it wouldn't be the worst family Christmas they've had in the last few years.

"And you know Mom will be ecstatic," he'd added.

She bit her lip, smirking down into her lap as she read a profile on one of the terrorists she was getting to know on the Middle East desk.

That same week she'd talked about Christmas plans with Henry, Conrad had poked his head into her office. "Elizabeth," he'd said, "I need to talk with you about something important, but I just got called out for something else—a personal matter—and it'll have to wait until tomorrow morning. Pencil me in at 8:00?"

He'd asked it, but it was more of a statement. Elizabeth obliged, but only after asking, "Is everything alright with Lydia and the baby?"

He'd given her a smile, "She may be in labor," he said, "But we're going to find out now."

As it turned out, Lydia had been in labor that day. Baby Harrison Dalton was born the next day, and Conrad did not meet with Elizabeth at 8:00 that morning. Instead, the meeting happened about two days later when Conrad made a quick trip to the office, and it rocked her world.

When she'd gone home that evening, she blurted it out to Henry after he'd kept asking what was wrong. She was irritated, moody—she could feel it in herself, around herself, vibrating off her like it was impossible to contain. But she hadn't wanted to tell him yet because she had a decision to make.

It felt like she'd just gotten to the peak of her career—she didn't want to give that up, not when she was almost at the top of everything she'd climbed for. The culmination of the hard, grueling work in school that paid off to get recruited, the long hours and sacrifices while in the company…she didn't want to waste it all. But then she'd think about Henry again and think about how proud she is that he is trying something new—his acceptance into Georgetown had come in the mail a few days before. He would be starting in the spring instead of a typical fall admit because he needed to take classes slower while still working full time.

He'd rebuilt his life from the Marines, from the way it had such a tight, life-threatening grip on him. He still had nightmares occasionally, but they were nowhere near as bad as they were previously, and she contributed that to changing jobs. He contributed it, he'd finally told her months later, to her being beside him all night.

She knew if they ever had to spend a night apart that it would tear her to shreds.

Henry finally had enough, he'd broken that night and asked what was wrong after dinner, and it was what caused her to explode.

"He wants me to go to Jordan for a year. He said I'm the best person for this post, Henry, like I'd already accepted the job offer or something." She didn't even stop long enough to take a proper breath, she just gasped for air in between words when she got the chance, "I knew that this was coming I just didn't know when and now that it's here I just don't want to and—"

He'd stopped her by grabbing her waist, his hands damp from helping her dry the dishes. "One thing at a time," he'd said.

When she looked in his eyes that night, standing in the kitchen with the dishes half dry, she knew her answer. It became very, very clear.

The next day, she'd gone back to Langley and stopped in Conrad's office. "Director Dalton?" She'd greeted, uneasy and unsure once she got inside. He looked up from his desk with a smile that quickly faded, and she felt herself crumple when he looked at her with disappointment. But she breathed in anyway and told him she would have to politely decline, and that, of course, she understood if this meant she'd be off the Middle East desk.

"You're sure?" He'd asked.

Without hesitation, she simply blinked and said, "I'm sure."

As she thinks about that now, she tucks her arms around her body a little more, sighing into the outdoors as life buzzed past their apartment.

She toys with her wedding ring on her left hand, mindlessly spinning it around her finger as she thinks about their second MICS conference together. Technically their second together—they're calling it their second even though the first one ended in tears with him leaving her again.

Something about him once they'd reconnected, though, told her he was sure this time. That they were in this for the long run.

It had been a surreal feeling seeing the same halls where she'd been hiding from him the day after their tryst in her hotel room. She'd sat in the same lecture hall as she had presented in the year before, almost in the same exact seat she'd seen Henry McCord in all dressed in his Marine uniform.

Thinking about it now, her heart skips, and she takes a deep breath.

She presented this year, too, and it was an odd feeling to hear her name as "Elizabeth McCord" this time around. Henry attended, but he didn't present—he was busy with coursework at Georgetown and was too deep in his studies to be able to pull together a good presentation. At least that's what he told her, but deep down, she knew it was because she'd confided in him that she was feeling insecure about losing her brevity in the ethics community.

"I feel like I'm letting my work slip," she'd said, and then the next week when they talked about presentations, he told her he wasn't presenting. She noticed the timing, but she never said anything because he clearly thought he was being smooth about it all.

But she smirked to herself sometimes—does he forget she's CIA?

She made a whole new network of people in the ethics community, meeting many Marines that Henry had worked closely with. She also got to meet some other colleagues of his at UVA—some of the religion department traveled to this conference to give a presentation of their own.

And even in the whirlwind of panels and presentations and people, the quiet moments brought her back to the ground. The moments when they'd steal away to a corner of the lobby together or walk through Central Park hand-in-hand. Somehow, that trip felt like a celebration.

A celebration of them. A celebration of their future. Maybe, even, a celebration of their past.

She hears the hardwood floor creak behind her and she startles, turning away from the sunshine and looking back at him. She'd gotten so lost in her thoughts, her reflections of the past year, that she'd forgotten she'd just been listening to his voice carrying through the house as he sang "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton. Now he's moved on to "Blackbird" by The Beatles.

She smiles when she sees him, turning and leaning against the windowsill, crossing her arms in front of her as her wedding ring sits still now on her finger.

"Lost in thought?" He asks, raising his brow as he smirks at her, walking across the spare room to her.

She twists her lips to the side, "Maybe a little," she breathes, giving him a playful look.

"Hmmm," he coos, "Penny for your thoughts, then?"

He's looking at her and awaiting an answer, but she looks over her shoulder and out the window again, breathing that cool breeze in. She shuts her eyes and lets herself be surrounded by the silence, blocking out for a moment that Henry is even in the room.

Because she wants to remember this moment forever—she wants to soak it in more than the grass is soaking these last days of summer sunshine, more than the flowers are soaking in its last September rains before the winter comes. She wants to remember all she's remembered standing right here in this spot—this spot that will no longer be theirs after next month.

Moving out of their first apartment together—really, his apartment that turned into theirs—wouldn't have felt so emotional, she thinks, had it not been for the little one in Henry's arms. But this is where they brought their baby home to two months ago, this is where Stephanie spent her first sleepless night and had gotten her first non-hospital bath in the tub. It's where they'd set up this nursery—this nursery that has taken over their office space—and hung flowery pictures on the wall once she was born and put up these green, sheer curtains.

The breeze whooshes over her face once more and she looks back at Henry after taking a deep breath, then drops her eyes to Stephanie. "Just happy to be where we are," she whispers.

He takes a few steps toward her now, closing the gap and pressing his lips against his forehead. "I'm glad," he whispers.

She studies him for a moment as he tends to Stevie, gently pushing the pacifier back in her mouth after she'd gotten fussy with him. Immediately, her instinct was to look down and take care of the problem, but Henry had this with no problem. He was quite the baby-whisperer, she'd found.

Her first time realizing this was in June at the MICS conference when she watched him tend to one of his colleagues' babies at a dinner one night. They'd all gone out to eat, though Elizabeth almost protested because her feet were tired and her ankles were swollen—she felt like she was going to pop. His colleague had a three-month-old with him, and his wife had gone to the restroom. When the little boy started crying, Henry quickly asked permission from the father and swooped into the car seat, rocking the baby in his arms.

In that moment, Elizabeth had been glad she didn't decide to listen to her achy back and exhausted legs. It warmed her heart enough to fuel her for the entire year.

But then, oh, then…she saw him with her baby, and she could power a whole country with the warmth she had inside her from day-to-day.

She looks at his face as he's oblivious to her watching him, and she smiles a little after a few moments of quiet, "Thank you for choosing me," she whispers, the sudden urge coming to her to blurt that out.

She bites her lip and looks away, a little embarrassed she'd been so overcome by that moment.

But he smiles as he looks up, "It was an easy decision," he admits, looking back down at Stevie as he sways and bounces at the same time—the baby stance that they'd both perfected in the last two months. "I was just stupid the first time."

She snorts and looks back out the window again, enjoying the city view before they move out into the suburbs into the little house they bought together. It had a nice backyard and was just a short drive away from the countryside—something she'd desperately wanted but didn't realize until she and Henry started talking real estate. She'd grown up on a horse farm, and going back even to this little taste of country felt right.

"Me too," she whispers.

"Hm?"

She shakes her head, "I was stupid too."

She continues to look out and he clears his throat, "But you chose me, too," he whispers, "Well, us."

She laughs as she turns her head back around and pushes herself off the windowsill, "I didn't know I was pregnant when I turned the job down," she admits again to him. They've been over this a thousand times. She'd been sick all week, but she thought it was because Conrad had made her so nervous by telling her he needed to chat with her then going away to be with his newborn baby and leaving her hanging.

A week after she'd turned him down, she realized just how important her decision had been as she was holding a pregnancy test, this time, that said "positive."

And maybe she couldn't have it all. Maybe she couldn't have her dream job, but she could have a piece of it—being on the Middle East desk was still what she wanted to do after all, even if she wasn't in the middle of the action in Jordan or elsewhere.

Maybe she couldn't keep publishing her work at the top of her game because, well, it's hard to write and research with a newborn to feed throughout the hours of the night. She barely functions enough to take herself to Langley, something she hates doing because it means leaving Stevie behind with the sitter.

A piece of her, the teenage Elizabeth who had just lost her parents and threw herself into her work, feels like it's hanging on by a thread. She wants to reach out for that girl sometimes, give her a hand to keep from blowing away in the whirlwind, but then she thinks she might be better off without her in the end. That girl was filled with pain and heartache that was unimaginable to even the person experiencing it.

This woman, the self that's standing between her husband, Henry McCord, who's holding their baby, Stephanie McCord, has let that pain and heartache step to the side, placing her happiness and joy right beside it.

Because after all, it's not getting to choose one thing or another, it's not getting to have it all. It's getting to have all this.

She steps to Henry and presses a kiss to his lips after briefly looking around the room, boxes filling the sides and keeping mostly out of the way of the path of the crib and changing table. Boxes had been stacked on their desk for a few weeks now.

Her fingers brush through Stevie's little bits of reddish hair, the fuzzy pieces still hanging on from being a young newborn, and she kisses him a little deeper.

All this, she thinks, was worth the six-year wait.