Washington, DC – October 2014

Elizabeth is staring at a bottle of ibuprofen—staring at it, wishing it would transform into a bottle full of Oxy. These thoughts should scare her. They do scare her. It's been five days in this house filled with so much life, and she's found a new type of loneliness—uselessness. Henry has done everything, and the things he can't do, Patrick or Stevie jump right in. She can make coffee, and she does every morning. She cleans, too, excessively and often, but it's not enough.

She's an outsider in this family unit. Henry's platitudes are just that—platitudes. He can tell her he missed her, that none of this was her fault, that he's doing okay, but she knows it's not the truth.

He walks around solving problems, calling schools and gathering homework, cooking meals, and seeming to parent with such ease. She's observed the way he's able to speak with their kids and his twins, too. He doesn't raise his voice, and his kids listen to him. There's trust there. He's wiser than she remembers. Sure, he could always quote saints in context or argue ethics until he was blue in the face, but those discussions were never more than that: discussions. He's grown into action, and it makes her feel inadequate.

"How'd oversight committee day six go?" Henry asks, trying to keep his voice neutral and soft. She's been staring at nothing on the kitchen counter for more than ten minutes at ten pm.

"Uh, more of the same. Mike Hirst said behind the scenes the impeachment is, at this point, a given. The Senate trial is still a tossup, especially because we are now eleven days from the mid-terms. So, who knows what'll happen during the lame duck?" Her eyes don't move from the bottle of ibuprofen as she imagines biting on one to release its bitter powder just to take the edge off her craving, just a little something to make her feel less helpless and weak. Her hand twitches for the bottle.

"That's good, though—that Impeachment feels inevitable." He says, "Maybe this will be over soon."

"Maybe." She takes a deep breath forces herself to stand up straight, and turns around, facing him. She smiles and hopes he doesn't notice her hand shaking, not that she's done anything wrong. She hasn't done anything at all.

Henry's eyes dart back and forth as he examines her. He can read her better than most. She had figured he'd be too out of practice to know her. It's always as if Henry has been able to see straight through all her walls and bullshit. He doesn't say anything, and she wonders if it's because he's trying not to fight, trying not to trigger her. Maybe that's why he won't tell her the truth about his pain, but the way his fingers flex, the way his body slouches, the way his head cocks to the side, it tells her he's not okay, either. He's exhausted and full of grief.

There's a long, drawn-out silence between them as they coexist in time and space. Henry studies her, trying to determine her next move. She stares back at him and waits for him to call her out, forcing her to face what's going on. Instead, he walks past her to the counter.

He's giving her an out.

He picks up the bottle of pills, unscrews the cap, and dumps the remaining contents into his palm. The tablets fall into his hand, and he tips his hand forward to release the extra back into the bottle. He rolls his neck, and she can see the tension in his shoulders. He has no way of knowing her attraction to the simple NSAID that used to hold her over in between Percs in the early days of her addiction. They have yet to dive into her addiction, and it has yet to be used against her. Isabelle thinks Conrad is keeping it in his back pocket as the last hurrah for the Senate trial. He'll pull out all the stops. He'll bring up the pills, the addiction, the arrest. He'll even throw in a little bit of her having sex to fuel her habit if he can find evidence. She's waiting for him.

Henry places the bottle back on the counter and leans against it. He looks so tired, and it's more than exhaustion.

"Are you doing okay?" She whispers. He's been so strong and steady. He's known what to do and say. But he's lost things, too, and there's a certain hollowness about him.

He smiles sadly and shrugs. How does he explain to her that he misses Jess? How does he explain to her that his heart is broken? How does he explain to her that while he's beyond happy she's alive, it sure has complicated things, and he's not entirely sure how to navigate her or his relationship with her—or the kids' relationships with her? This doesn't even take into account Bobby and Drew, who are so pent up in this house and upset and missing their mom.

"I'm tired," he admits. That seems a good place to start.

She smiles sadly. She's deeply familiar with being exhausted in terrible ways that can't be slept away. She spent years being tired. If she's honest, she's still tired. Even now, knowing she is close to justice and her kids are back in her life, no matter how awkward that seems to be going, she's still tired.

He pushes away from the counter and stands upright. She watches his back as he walks toward the staircase.

"Night, Elizabeth," he whispers.

She closes her eyes, and the urge to run after him and beg him to love her again is overwhelming. It's the worst sort of longing she's felt in a very long time. She grabs the bottle off the counter and listens to the pills rattling around. The sound makes her heart beat with excitement, though they aren't the pills she wants. They won't get her high. They won't do anything for her.

It's just the sound of them, and she's disappointed in herself. Yet she rolls the bottle again just to hear them rattle. She needs George. She needs a therapy appointment or a last-resort meeting. She needs a way out.

"Goodnight, Henry," she whispers, her hand closing tightly around the bottle. She takes a breath as she forces her hand to loosen. She places the bottle back on the kitchen counter and takes a few steps back, putting distance between her and the temptation.

Elizabeth turns and heads to bed.

Henry lies awake, staring at the ceiling. His heart beats fast in his chest. He's getting used to it—the sleepless nights, the achy neck, and the tense shoulders.

The spot next to him is cold. He's alone again, stuck in a limbo he did not want and did not choose. At night, he wonders about Jess, how she's doing, and if he made the right decision, and the fact that he wonders about it at all makes him feel like a monster.

His fingers curl into a fist as his arm tightens. His heart feels like it's about to jump out of his chest. He's not ready to deal with the fact that Jess is who she is. He loves her. He does. And he hates her. And he can't forgive her. He's not ready for that. He's not sure how he's ever supposed to be ready to forgive her. Yet his seven-year-old twins are asleep in the room next to his with Jason. She's their mom. She's always going to be their mom. He spent ten years loving her. It's not going to go away. He can't just stop caring about her.

But he can't do this. Not now.

He sighs, rolls over, and tries to go to sleep. Though Elizabeth enters his mind, he hears her at night, sometimes crying. He never knows what to do. He's not her husband. He can't offer her comfort. Not when it comes to something so personal, intimate, and painful. He doesn't know what to say or how to react, and she's not the type of woman to open up and accept help. It had taken him a year of being her philosophy tutor with benefits before she had allowed him to see her. And that was before. This is different.

He sighs again and runs a hand down his face. He wishes he had the courage to find her and make sure she's okay. He doesn't know if she would appreciate it, but he knows she's not one to seek help.

So he lies there, stares at the ceiling, and hopes that maybe, just maybe, his heart will calm down.

They reunite at three a.m., running down the hallway to the sound of their daughter screaming. Elizabeth nearly crashes into him as she tears the door open to the room Stevie and Allison are sleeping in. Elizabeth's heart is racing, and her eyes dart around the room in a frantic way that can only be described as hyperalert. There are no intruders, just Stevie thrashing on the lower bunk with a heavily sleeping Allison above her.

Elizabeth freezes in place for a moment as Henry softly but quickly pushes her to the side to get to Stevie. The poor girl's hair is matted with sweat, her face red, and her screams are filled with terror. Her hands are wrapped around her chest, her fingers curled, and her body shakes.

In an instant, Henry is on his knees, whispering Stevie's name, gently grabbing her, and shaking her.

Elizabeth stands silently, looking on once again, feeling the deep pang of uselessness and the fear of not knowing what to do. Henry knows, though. Henry has always known.

"Stevie, honey, wake up. Stevie. Stevie. I'm here. I'm right here. Stevie. Come on. Wake up, baby." His voice is soft, gentle, and loving. It's not the first time he's woken her from a nightmare. It isn't Elizabeth's either, but so much time has passed between then and now. Stevie was eight the last time Elizabeth remembers her crawling into bed with her and Henry, and now she's nearing twenty-one.

Stevie wakes with a jolt, gasping for air and frantically searching the room, looking for an answer to a question she can't quite figure out. When her eyes finally settle on Henry, her body relaxes, and she throws her arms around him, clutching him tight.

Henry holds her as she cries. Elizabeth moves closer, but it's only instinct. She can make out a few of Stevie's words—Jess, gun, scared, mommy. Mommy. Elizabeth reaches out to her little girl, her sweet little Stevie, and runs a hand down her head, smoothing out her hair.

"Mom?" Stevie cries. "I was so scared."

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I'm right here. Shh. It's okay." Elizabeth kneels beside her and wraps her arms around Stevie, pulling her away from Henry just a little. Her heart conflicts with her brain as it soars, knowing her daughter wants her and needs her, at least for this moment. Even if this moment was caused by a gun being held to her head at Jessica's request- even if she knows the scars, being terrified for your life leaves on a soul forever.

She holds her baby.

"You're okay. You're safe," she promises, and Stevie clings to her, sobbing.

Stevie is exhausted. Her body feels weak, and her mind is scattered. Her throat burns, and her mouth is dry. She clings to her mother as if the simple act can take all her pain away. It's comforting to know that, despite all the grief and changes, her mother's shampoo still smells the same. She buries her face in Elizabeth's neck and inhales.

Her mother's hand rests on the back of her head, stroking her hair. It's soothing, and Stevie tries to focus on the feeling.

"I know, baby," Elizabeth whispers, "I know."

Stevie knows her mother does, in fact, know how this feels. She knows her mother must wake up like this sometimes, too, sweaty, confused, and afraid. She can feel her mother's heart beating, and she listens.

She takes a deep breath, her lungs expanding as they fill with her mother's scent. Elizabeth's arms feel strong around her. It's so nice to have her here. Stevie closes her eyes and wishes the world would stop spinning.

Elizabeth doesn't say anything as she holds her daughter, and Stevie appreciates it.

Henry and Elizabeth find each other's eyes as Henry stands to verify that Allison is still asleep. She is thanks to the noise-canceling earbuds playing ASMR, though Stevie's screaming must have woken up Patrick, who is standing in the doorway.

"What's going on?" Patrick asks, his voice is heavy with sleep.

Henry doesn't respond.

Elizabeth continues to stroke Stevie's hair. "Bad dream," she answers softly.

Patrick nods, his face falling.

"Come on, Dad. Let's let Stevie get some sleep," Henry suggests, walking past him. He pats his shoulder and guides him back to the bedroom.

Patrick follows, though he doesn't want to leave. He glances over his shoulder at Stevie and Elizabeth.

Stevie holds tight on her mother's shirt, and her eyes are closed. Elizabeth stays with Stevie long after she's fallen back asleep. She's not ready to let her go yet, and she can't explain the relief that came with holding her daughter—with feeling useful, if only for the night.

…X…X…X..

The First Lady quietly begins to prepare her exit strategy. She's remained calm and collected. She has repeatedly told her husband she is on his side, and she has not even whispered a word of her doubt to her son. She's watched the Oversight Committee hearings every day quietly in her office. She's tried to put together the things she knows about Conrad. It sickens her that she's spent so long sleeping next to that man—sleeping with him. But she's also come to understand that there's a great divide between her and her husband. She's a woman of the people. He's a man of power.

There is one thing she knows for sure: The Oversight Committee won't have any sympathy for her husband, no matter how safe he thinks he is. The only question that remains is when her husband's allies will turn on him and what he will do when that happens. She doesn't feel safe anymore. She can tell Russell doesn't either; the man has become quiet and jumpy. The two of them spoke this morning about how they need to protect themselves and their families and how they need to plan a way out.

So, the First Lady begins to lay the groundwork. She packs only one bag of her things and requests that it be taken to Blair House. In the morning, she will tell Conrad she wants out after she hands over her secret weapon to Congress.

She has no intention of going down with her husband and no intention of leaving her son behind.