A/N: Here's a goofy take of events that could have taken place after episode 3x09.
It's laughable, yet also cute.
Hope you enjoy!
She couldn't sleep. The weight of the world, literally, had been on her mind all day. Henry's quiet snores beside her ring out in the dark, and finally, she reaches for her phone and looks through her email.
Her mind can't focus on emails, either, though, so she switches over to Pinterest. She scrolls through and pins some house décor options to her board, the board under the username "hanksgal1217." She'd created the username as a joke back when AIM chat became a thing, and then it stuck—she made her username under that as to not be found out who was behind the account. Because really, what average troll would figure out that Henry is Hank, that she's the "gal," and that their anniversary is December 17th?
She sighs and already feels bored with Pinterest, too, and her mind darts back to something Henry said the other day about Jeff, the Congressman he was friends with from his days as a Marine.
In his hungover state, he'd recounted the evening he'd spent with Jeff drinking, and Elizabeth listened to him as he spoke from a horizontal position on the bed while she got ready for her day. When she went downstairs to make breakfast, he'd come down a few minutes later with a jacket on and looking awfully disheveled. She gave him his plate with a warm smile, told him how nice it was that he was a friend to Jeff, and said, "And the harness part was funny."
Henry had told her that morning that Jeff had tried to put a sex swing up and he'd installed it incorrectly, and Elizabeth had snorted at the bathroom counter at the image of a Congressman falling out of a sex swing.
"Funny ha-ha," Henry had asked, half-drunk still at that breakfast table, "Or funny intriguing?"
"Definitely ha-ha," she replied right before the kids came down the stairs arguing.
And now, lying in bed, she glances up at the time on her phone and switches over to her browser. I'll put this down at 2:00, she told herself silently, giving herself ten more minutes as though she were a child. As though it would help her sleep at all.
She puts the browser in incognito mode—something she'd learned from State's info-session on cybersecurity—and Google searched "sex swings easy install." Her eyes widened when pictures came up first, and she scrolled past quickly to find links to websites selling them.
Out of curiosity, she went to a new tab and searched "sex swing diagrams," and clicked on a link that said it had positions for them. Her eyes widened again as she saw the very detailed diagrams of the multitude of ways you could use one of these things. After scrolling through about twenty positions, she looks over at Henry and he snores, and she sighs and goes back to the store tab.
She finds the one she'd seen that hooks over the door. Don't have to worry about falling and hurting your back this way, Congressman, she thought to herself as she added it to the cart. She types in Henry's credit card number that she's memorized way too quickly and presses order.
Immediately, she gets an email confirming the order, and she widens her eyes and deletes it in hopes that it doesn't make national news.
She sighs a little too loudly, secretly hoping it might wake him up, but when he just snores again, she lays her phone down on the nightstand and quietly opens her nightstand drawer. If only he'd wake up, she thinks to herself as she shimmies out of her underwear and lifts her nightgown up, finding herself more than ready to play.
In no time after a silent climax, she was sound asleep.
Eight days later
"Hey Bryan," she says, leaning around the driver's seat and getting the side of her driver's face, "Can we run by the house? I need to grab my coat—I left it on the hall table this morning."
"Of course, ma'am," Bryan answers, and she nods and looks back down at her work emails.
A few minutes later, they pull her up to the curb and she gets out, telling her DS agents hello. "Here's your mail, ma'am," one said, handing her a large package.
She furrows her brows, immediately trying to remember what she'd ordered. But of course, DS goes through all their mail before it is allowed in the house, so the box's lid was open. She thanks them and walks into the house with the mail and the package, peeking in and dropping the box, letting out a strangled squawk and looking over her shoulder through the closed door. First, she thanks herself for closing the door before she'd squeaked like that, and then she curses herself for ordering something like this so stupidly. They saw it, she told herself, leaning down to pick up the box and, ultimately, the sex swing that she'd ordered without thinking about how it has to go through diplomatic security first.
She takes a shaky breath and runs a hand over her face, trying to think quickly. Should I call Henry? No, he doesn't know I did this either.
She looks at the clock on the wall—Bryan would be expecting her back in the car any second, and Blake would also be expecting her back in the office soon. The kids would be coming home from school soon, too, and then this box would just be haunting her in her closet upstairs.
Biting down on her lip too hard, she shuffles up the stairs quickly and calls Stevie, "Hey honey," she says when her eldest answers, "Are you still at the White House?" she asks.
"I get off in a few minutes," Stevie answers, "Why? What's up? Is everything okay?"
My oldest, Elizabeth thinks, smiling. "Everything's fine," she says, "I was wondering if you had any plans tonight."
"Oh, yeah," Stevie answers, "I'm going over to Jareth's tonight to have dinner."
"Oh," Elizabeth says, trying to let herself sound disappointed. But the truth is that this was part of her plan. "I know Ali has that party she's going to tonight," she says, putting the box down at the edge of her closet and using her foot to slide it in.
"And Jason's trip is this weekend," Stevie says.
Elizabeth straightens up after putting shoes on the box and frowns, "What trip?" she asks.
"What trip?" Stevie asks, then laughs, "Oh, you're serious. His trip to Gatlinburg?"
Elizabeth cringes and tightens her eyes, sighing. She does remember signing for that school trip—it was a weekend trip that his class was taking together. She'd already paid for the hotel and everything. "Right, right," Elizabeth says. "Well, I think your dad and I are going to go out for dinner tonight," she says.
"Isn't it your anniversary?"
"Tomorrow," Elizabeth says.
"Mom," Stevie says, "Your anniversary is the 17th."
"Today's the 16th," Elizabeth answers as she comes back down the stairs, going and getting her coat off the table.
"Today's the 17th," Stevie replies more firmly, more slowly.
Elizabeth's eyes widen and she looks at her watch, but it doesn't have the date on it obviously and she pulls her phone away from her cheek, realizing today is the 17th. "Shit," she mumbles, her phone still away from her face. "You're right, sweetie, thank you," she says, walking back out of the door and to the car. After she says her goodbyes, the door shuts behind her and Bryan looks back.
"Ma'am?" he asks.
She looks up from her phone, scrambling to think of something to do for Henry, "Yes?" she asks, wondering if Henry also forgot today was their anniversary since he didn't do anything this morning.
He didn't reply right away so she looks up at him, and he's looking around the back seat.
"What is it, Bryan?" she asks.
"Your coat?" he questions lightly, afraid to overstep.
She drags her tongue across the front of her teeth and takes a deep breath through her nose, shaky, while nodding, "Right," she says, opening the door again and rushing back to get her coat.
When she gets back to the car once more, she tries to get a clear mind while looking out the window, but all she could think about was how the security agents definitely saw what that was. She grits her teeth together and finally takes out her phone, sending a text to Henry: "Dinner and dessert tonight? Kids are all out for the night."
There was no time wasted at all in Henry's reply, "I like the sound of that."
She couldn't focus in her office at all, so finally she'd told Blake she wasn't feeling well. The reality was that she wanted to get home, she wanted to order their food, and she wanted to set up that swing and surprise Henry. Quite the happy anniversary, if you ask her.
She'd already ordered the food before going upstairs and getting into the box. She slides it out of her closet again and checks the instructions, but they were pretty straightforward—hang it up the door, a sturdy door. She was suddenly a little more thankful for the great construction in this Georgetown home.
Looking around the room, she decides immediately on using his closet door. It's the easiest access, it's blocked off from the windows, and it also had plenty of room to move around. She turns around and faces his closet, taking the swing out and untangling it before finally figuring out which was is up and which is down.
The instructions had seemed so straightforward, but about halfway through putting it up, she wondered if she was doing it wrong. "Just what I need," she mumbles to herself, testing some of her weight in the stirrup, "A headline saying Madam Secretary breaks back from sex swing, reports say…"
She hears the door open downstairs, "Babe? I'm home."
Her pulse quickens immediately, causing the breath to rush out of her lungs as she thinks about the exciting little surprise she has for him. She hadn't thought about how she was going to surprise him, though, and she panics and starts stripping out of her clothes, throwing them into the back of her closet.
"Babe?" she hears again.
"Up here," she says, trying to not sound too out of breath as she's climbing into the swing. She slides her leg into the stirrup and then the other one, and then she hangs there in a slightly awkward position as she feels the air hit her everywhere at once. "In here," she says when she hears the bedroom door open.
"Yes, Mr. President, she's up here." Henry was rounding the corner when Elizabeth's new panic set in. He's talking to Conrad right now? He's handing the phone to me?
Henry's eyes widen and he almost lets out a gasp, but she watches him hold it back so professionally, a big smiling gracing his face. "Mr. President?" he says, "Here she is."
Elizabeth widens her eyes at him, mouthing, "Make something up!"
But Henry snorts as he hands the phone to her, "He wants to speak to you," he whispers.
"I can't right now," she says, her eyes so wide that she feels like she might get a headache, but she takes the phone anyway. "Hello, Mr. President."
"Bess," he says, "I just wanted to wish you and Henry a happy anniversary."
She looks down at her naked body and closes her eyes, wishing she'd had better timing. "Thank you, sir," she manages to get out while Henry is doing everything he can to not burst out in loud laughter. She shoots him a look and it sends him into a fit of chuckles.
"Twenty-six years," he says, "That's quite the feat."
"Yes it is, sir," she says, taking a shaky breath and holding the phone away from her face slightly so he wouldn't hear her.
"I remember when you came in to Langley saying you and Henry had gotten married over the weekend, surprising us all," Conrad says, and Elizabeth smiles a little, "Henry said you were having dinner tonight?"
"Yes sir," Elizabeth says, her voice starting to be strangled. "But we ended up ordering in," she adds.
"I see," Conrad says, and then her face blushes and she realizes she might have just given away part of her situation to the Leader of the Free World. But only part of her position, because how could he ever guess she's hanging in a sex swing on the back of the Secretary of State's husband's closet door, totally naked, and feeling very warm across her chest and her cheeks? "Well, I'll let you go. I just had a moment and wanted to be sure to congratulate you on the accomplishment."
"Thank you, Conrad," she says, slipping and calling him by his first name. She does every so often, and though he doesn't seem to mind, she still can't bring herself to do it regularly—he's the President of the United States, after all.
Elizabeth hangs the phone up and tosses it at Henry, and he finally bursts out into laughter and catches it low. "I had no idea, you have to give me that," he says, raising his brow at her.
"I'm going to take myself out of this contraption and pretend I forgot our anniversary after all," she says, not telling him that she had forgotten their anniversary. She hadn't forgotten, really… she just thought it was tomorrow.
"No no no," Henry says, taking his shirt off.
"Oh no, mister," Elizabeth says, watching as he walks toward her in that lanky, horny way. "You're not getting any of this now."
"Oh, come on," he says, raising his brow and standing between her legs, resting his hands on the underside of her thighs as he wraps his arms on the outside of them. "I'll bet that your body is telling you otherwise."
She looks at him and grits her teeth, raising her brow up, "You're real full of yourself, Dr. McCord," she says, "You think I—"
She was going to say "you think I can't get myself off?" until he laid his palm against her center and curled his fingers inward, sliding two of them into her and making her head hit the door. She let out a loud moan, thankful that the kids weren't here after all, and she opens her eyes to look at Henry.
"You were saying?" he asks, his fingers stilling knuckle-deep inside her.
She bites her lip, "I'm just doing this for my pleasure now," she teases, her voice coy as she looks away and feels his fingers bring her back. She watches as he kneels down, his head at perfect height.
"Fine by me," he says, "I'll pleasure you as much as you want."
"That's not—"
But she couldn't manage to finish her sentence because his tongue was doing unspeakable things to her, so she let out a guttural sound that reverberated through the door and up to her head.
"So," Elizabeth says, rubbing lotion down her legs as her hair falls forward, sticking to her body. She and Henry had shared a nice shower together after their swing escapade, "What's your review?"
Henry looks over from the bed, furrowing his brow as he's stuffing lasagna into his mouth. He'd clearly worked up an appetite. She smirks from the bathroom doorway as her foot is up on the counter, thinking, this is what twenty-six years looks like, as she watches her husband shovel pre-ordered lasagna while looking past a sex swing she'd ordered past her bedtime.
"My review?" he asks, swallowing a bite and forking another.
She sets her foot down and pulls her other leg up, slathering lotion down her calf first, "Yeah," she says, not looking at him. She feels his eyes on her, though, until he pulls them away to eat his lasagna. "You know, how would you rate the experience?"
"Oh," he says, and she looks back at him as she rubs the lotion into her thigh. He's looking down at the lasagna and nodding, chewing up another bite and swallowing before answering, "Well," he says, and his voice makes her brow furrow, "I mean…it was good, you know."
She smiles a little and bites her lip, but he doesn't look up. She sets her foot back down and pulls her nightgown down over her thighs, walking into the bedroom and adjusting the thin spaghetti strap as she walks around to her side of the bed. She feels a pang in her hamstring—a sign of the swing.
"I'd give it, like, an eight out of ten?"
She has her hands resting on the mattress, about to climb in, but she pauses and looks up at him. "Only an eight?" she demands.
"Yeah, solid eight," he confirms, looking down still. When she doesn't answer, he finally rips his gaze away from the lasagna. "What?"
"Only an eight?" she repeats, the panging in her hamstring getting louder. All that contorting for him to say it was an eight? "Isn't that a little underwhelming for something so…" she pauses, frowning as she crawls into the bed, "Unconventional?"
He slides over the tub of lasagna and hands her a paper plate, and he scoops some out for her while she holds it in her lap, "I mean, it was good," he says, shrugging his shoulder as he plops lasagna down on the plate, "Nothing to complain about, for sure. But I think the seasoning is a little off. The balance could have been a little better, maybe a little more spice next—"
"Are you talking about the sex swing or the lasagna right now?" she interrupts, staring at him.
He freezes, his arm mid-scoop when he brings his eyes up to meet hers. His head is tilted forward just slightly, and there's a little smirk rising on his face before he bites his lip. "Oh," he says, and she rolls her eyes dramatically and plops backwards against the headboard, almost dumping her half-scooped plate of lasagna. "I thought you were talking about the food, babe."
She sighs and looks over at him, her glasses falling down off the top of her head haphazardly, "My hamstrings are screaming at me right now, and all you can think about is the lasagna…" she mumbles.
He laughs innocently, "Can you blame me? You had me sweating," he says, shaking his head and resuming his dipping. She stops him and grabs for the other fork, sitting up so she could eat, "No, no, that swing…" he shakes his head and sighs contently, "That was something of just my wildest dreams."
"Well," she says, "DS knows we—"
"No," Henry breathes.
She doesn't look at him, just nods, "Yep."
"Oh," he says, then bites his lip like he just can't help the smile. "I kinda like that."
She smacks him on the arm, "Henry…" she whines, shaking her head and scooping lasagna up on her fork. She takes a bite and realizes Henry was right—it could use more spice.
I kinda like that too, she thinks, then almost wrinkles her nose up at the thought of feeling even an inkling of pride that anyone has a glimpse into their sex life. At least it has spice, she tells herself.
"What changed your mind?" he asks out of the blue, cutting through the silence of just their chewing.
She looks over as though she forgot he was there, "Oh," she shrugs, "I don't know. You just seemed pretty intrigued by the idea."
"But you weren't," he recalls.
She shrugs, "What can I say? I'm a giver."
They both snort and shovel in some more food, and Henry reaches over in his nightstand drawer and takes out a box. "Here's my twenty-six for you," he says, carefully handing her a ring box.
She furrows her brows, "You didn't have to get me anything, Henry…" she murmurs, "If I'm being honest, I forgot what day it was. I was just glad the swing could be an excuse of a gift."
He laughs and shakes his head, "I forgot, too," he admits, "But I had this ring prepared—it was going to be your anniversary gift regardless. I had it made last year, but it wasn't finished in time for our twenty-fifth."
She smiles at his thoughtfulness and sets her plate down to her side, opening the ring box and seeing a beautifully crafted, golden ring that had a diamond set in the middle of a gold circle. "Henry…" she breathes, "This is beautiful…"
He smiles at her, and she leans in to kiss him briefly, tasting the lasagna on his breath too. "Love you, babe. Happy twenty-sixth."
"Happy twenty-sixth," she whispers, putting the ring on her finger.