January 17, 1992
It's finally that time again—Henry's coming home. The anticipation is palpable, more intense than ever before. After their last goodbye, she put more effort into being okay. And she misses him—the ache is bone-deep and ever-present. She's prepared for him this time. She's stocked their fridge, and she has a bottle of wine chilling. She bought some new clothes catered to his taste. The apartment is spotless and their sheets are clean. She's more than ready for him to be home—even if it's only for a week.
A year has come and gone since that morning. She feels as if she's finally settled herself into a routine—work, gym, yoga, reading, dog walking. Her life is calmer, and so is her mind. She's met friends at work, and she's even enjoyed a few nights out. She's finally beginning to feel as if the pieces of her life are coming together—work especially.
She has a knack for it. She's surprised at how quickly she's been able to pick up geopolitics and international espionage. They took her previously known language learning skills—French and German in high school and college, prospectively—and sent her to the State Department's School of Language Studies for Arabic. They sat her on the Middle East desk and she became the mentee of the deputy director, Conrad Dalton. His mentorship and advice have become invaluable to her. He's sent her back to school to get her master's in international affairs—You have a bright future, Bess. It'll help. She met with an advisor from GWU not too long after that conversation, and she will start classes during the summer semester.
She's found contentment. Her job is not just a job; it's a passion, and she loves her work. She's found a community of other female agents. And her boss, though strict, cares about her enough to bestow a nickname that isn't Lizzie. The only thing missing is Henry.
Her life isn't perfect, but she's made it her own. When Henry last left her, she promised him she would be okay. She is more than glad that she's kept that promise.
She takes her time getting ready for him, her heart pounding with a mix of nervousness and excitement. It's been so long since they've been on a proper date- after flight school, before his first deployment. She wants to impress him. She blows out her new bob. The haircut was spawned by a nightmare and her inability to sleep. She couldn't handle looking at herself in the mirror anymore. So, she cut her hair. She had it fixed the next day, and she's grown to like it. She keeps her makeup light- grateful for her lack of dark circles. She ties her shoes. She's grateful to remember what excitement feels like.
…X…X…X…
He's standing at attention twenty feet away from her. She giggles—actually giggles in excitement, waiting for him to be dismissed. He catches her smile—her usual smile: big and bright and infectious and most noticeably reaching her eyes.
"Dismissed," The Lieutenant Colonel announces.
Henry's quick to leave the line. He's even quicker to wrap his arms around her. She squeezes him back equally as tight as tears of relief fill her eyes. He's made it home once again.
"God, I missed you," She breathes into his uniform, her hands balling into his shirt.
"I missed you," He tells her as he lets go. He looks down at her and wipes her eyes with his thumbs, "Don't cry, Elizabeth,"
"I'm not, I swear. I'm just so glad you're home," She tells him before pressing her lips into his softly.
"I'm home," He repeats.
"Yes,"
He smiles at her and wraps his arm around her.
"Ready to get outta here?"
"Please," She laughs.
…X…X…X…
Their night is calm and domestic. They flirt while they cook, and they drink wine over dinner. They talk about their jobs and their lives, and it feels natural and right. Their conversations come easy. They talk about what they want for their future—her career furthering master's degree and his new dream to teach after his discharge. They spend time updating each other in ways that their ten-minute phone calls every few days never quite get to. They end the night curled up on the couch with Lady. He holds her, and they watch TV, and he's never been more grateful for his home.
"So, your new hair?" He says as he runs his fingers through it.
"You hate it?" She nearly flinches, preparing for his answer.
"No," He says immediately, "Not at all. You look sexy with short hair," He says, taking the risk. She seems better this time—a difference in his wife as stark as night and day. He thinks it's possible that his last time home six months ago, her attitude, and seeming depression were a fluke.
"Do I?" She asks, biting her lip, and he's pretty sure her cheeks are red. His hand runs from the nape of her neck, up the back of her head, and then back into her hair.
"Yeah," He breathes. She backs away from him to get a view of his face. She leans in slightly her eyes remaining on his. She's slow and almost apprehensive.
Henry waits—he doesn't move a muscle. There is something deep in his brain telling him she needs to do this. She needs to control the situation. So, he waits and watches.
He lets her come to him. Her lips gently brush against his, and he feels the warmth of her breath.
"Elizabeth," He sighs, and his lips are on hers. She presses into a long, nearly chaste but intimate peck. She feels Henry all around her—a feeling she had been accustomed to before he deployed. And before that morning. But there's something about the kiss that makes her want more. It's not just about the sex—not just a means to an end. It's more than that. It's deeper, and it's about them—she wants to be with him.
Her hands find his face, and she runs her fingertips across his clean-shaven face. She pushes forward, and their kiss becomes a bit more passionate. Their tongues intermingle, and her heart starts pounding.
"Take me to bed," She breathes into his lips as he wraps his arms around her tighter.
"You sure?" He asks softly. He wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the night with her. But he also knows she has to be sure.
She nods and pecks his lips again, "Yes,"
"Okay,"
He stands, and she grabs his hand and leads him toward the bedroom.
January 18, 1992
She wakes up in his arms—skin on skin, the golden morning light shining through their sheer curtains. She can feel his warm, gentle breath on the nape of her neck. She finds herself smiling.
It wasn't the best sex. If she's honest, it was probably the worst sex the two of them have had—aptly comparable to two tentative virgins. They had stumbled and stuttered, and he'd ask her if she was ready a handful of times. She didn't finish. But she'd been so caught up in the feeling of him and his presence that none of it really mattered. She had reclaimed her body and shared it with Henry. She knows now that what the man did to her and what Henry does with her are two very different things.
Henry wakes to her soft, warm breath on his neck while her fingertips run soft patterns over his chest, leaving tingles in their wake. He has missed this—the king-sized bed and his wife's naked body pressed against his.
He kisses her forehead and her hand stills.
"G'morning," He whispers.
"Hi," She mumbles into his skin, "I missed this," she sighs.
"Me too," he says. She can feel his tension—his possible apprehension.
"What's wrong?" She asks, pulling away to look at his face.
"Nothing," he breathes.
She can see his hesitation, "It's not nothing,"
"Elizabeth," he starts.
"Please tell me," she pleads.
"You didn't cum last night," he says. It's not an accusation, and his tone is more nervous than upset.
She blushes, "Oh, um,"
He tightens his hold on her. He hadn't meant to finish before she did. He hadn't meant to be done. He was trying so hard to hold off and wait for her. But his body had a mind of its own. Plus, she had done that thing with her tongue on his ear.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, and she's not quite sure what for.
"For what?"
"For not lasting longer,"
"It's okay," she laughs, and his cheeks turn pink, "Henry. It is fine. It still felt really good to be with you," she assures him.
He pecks her lips, and she smiles.
"I love you," He says.
"I love you too,"
He holds her tighter and closes his eyes. She can feel him relax, and she wonders if he thought she would be mad.
Lady breaks them out of their almost awkward silence with a heavy sigh from her bed. The bed she has never once slept in that sits in the corner of their room.
"She's jealous of you," Elizabeth giggles.
"Good thing I'm only here for a week,"
"She's already plotting your murder,"
Henry laughs, "I'll take her for a walk later to make it up to her."
She watches him get out of bed. His body is perfect. It was perfect when she met him, but now, with nothing else to do on the ship but flying jets and PT, he's built like the Statue of David. She knows she's reawakening a part of herself she's shut off since that morning. She's barely thought about sex. But her eyes roam Henry's body before the bathroom door shuts and the shower starts.
She knows she has some time. He told her he'd been jonesing for a shower with hot water that could last for more than ninety seconds.
She pulls the covers up and buries her face into his pillow, and the scent of him is strong. The scent is intoxicating. Her hand finds her core. It takes five minutes and thoughts of Henry for her to find she isn't broken.
January 6, 2019
He remains wide awake next to her while she naps. He holds her close to him and whispers assurances every time she so much as flexes a finger. His heart is broken. He can't help but replay her story in his head over and over. He couldn't get the haunted look she had on her face as she told him out of his head.
He's kept their kids at bay while she's slept with vague lies about her not feeling well. He can tell they're worried. It's not like Elizabeth to spend four hours of her Sunday sleeping—even if she's sick. But he doesn't know what else to do.
She begins to stir—pushing against his body with her hands as if she's fighting her way out of something.
"Hey, it's okay," He assures her, but her face only contorts into a look he's never seen before in their over thirty years together. She whimpers, and it's enough to break his heart.
"Elizabeth, wake up," He says, keeping his tone soft and running his hand through her hair.
She does. Her eyes fly open, and she gasps for air. She feels nothing but the cold, hard ground under her. She pushes against the warm body she feels next to her—not able to sense their identity. She can only smell the man. She can only hear the man.
"Elizabeth, babe," Henry repeats. He feels her relax slightly against him as she blinks and looks around the room, taking in the sights and sounds of the familiar bedroom.
"You were dreaming," he assures her, "You're safe. I'm right here, babe."
"Henry," she breathes.
He watches her eyes fill with tears. She winces slightly as she tries to gain her composure. She's done more crying these last few days than she has in years. She hates crying—and especially in front of anyone.
"You're okay," he tells her again, and she nods. She buries her face into his chest, and he wraps his arms around her tight.
"Let it out, baby," He tells her gently when he feels her trying to hold it together, "You can cry,"
"I don't want to," she admits. She's not sure why. She's not embarrassed. He's her husband, and he's seen her in some pretty bad states. But it's different this time. She doesn't want to give this the energy it's taking from her.
"Maybe you need to," he suggests.
She doesn't know what it is, but she does. She cries into him—sobs, actually. He holds her tight. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't let her go. He lets her cry herself out—simply waiting until she's done.
…X…X…X…
She finally cleans herself up when Stevie knocks on their door to tell them she's starting dinner. She sits at the kitchen table with the mail, her laptop, and her checkbook. She has always loved being in charge of the household finances. Math makes sense to her. It always has.
She feels her body calming finally as Henry and Allison cook dinner, Jason sitting with her at the table typing a history paper, and Stevie watching TV in the den. She's always loved being surrounded by her family in a bubble of domesticity. She believes that her family is truly her greatest accomplishment.
She finds herself getting drawn into the show Stevie's watching. It's some police procedural she doesn't know the name of. She's never enjoyed these shows—there is something about them that is so unrealistic and triggering. Yet, she finds herself getting drawn in.
The story she's watching is so similar to her own. She listens as if the main detective character seems to be speaking to her directly. She's overcome with a want of justice. She doesn't quite know how to define justice in her situation. He will never be criminally charged for what he did to her—it's been too long. But she wants him to pay in some way. She's not sure how or why, but she wants him to have a consequence—however minor it may be.
"Henry?"
"Yeah, babe?"
"I want the list,"
He looks up from his sautéing vegetables to study her face. Five hours ago she was timid and unsure, and now, her eyes are full of fire and determination.
"It's on my desk in the office,"
He watches her leave her things on the kitchen table as she disappears to their office. He hears her turn on the light. He doesn't move to follow her—instead, he continues cooking, hoping to give her the space and time she needs.