June 8, 2004
Elizabeth is fuming—her fists are clenched, and she is literally biting her tongue to keep quiet. She can feel her body tingling with rage, her vision tunneling, and her pulse racing.
She wants nothing more than to storm off.
But she's an adult. And she knew it was always going to be a bad week. Her toddler is now firmly in the terrible threes. Stevie is eleven and testing every single boundary placed in front of her. She thanks god most days for Allison, who, at seven, is the perfect age a kid can be not to push your buttons. Between parenting them and being here, she doesn't have time to be with Henry as often as she likes (and the sexual frustration is mounting at two months).
It was always going to be a bad week. But now it's all topped off by being assigned to work with Craig Sterling once again. And what feels even worse than that is working with Craig Sterling on this particular investigation. Al Queda members are reportedly holding ten Iraqi women who are being raped repeatedly.
"Craig, we have to do something!" Elizabeth says, "They have been kidnapped and tortured and raped. We cannot allow these men to continue to terrorize the population of Iraq."
"If these women were American, we'd be having a different conversation. But they're Iraqi, and that's not a reason to burn a Black Ops team,"
Elizabeth grits her teeth. She did not need this today. She did not need this at all—not the images assaulting her mind and her nightmares, not the memories haunting her, not the looking over her shoulder on the jogs she'd recently taken back up after thirteen years.
"It doesn't matter who they are," Elizabeth replies, "We are going to help them. We are the US government. We've agreed to take the role of the world's police force, and I say we should protect innocent civilians regardless of their nationality. This is what our country has fought for. If you don't agree with me, I will go over your head."
"I am not the problem here," he says, "We are in the middle of a war. We do not have the resources. You'd know that if you got your head out of your ass."
"Excuse me?!" She asks, her anger getting the best of her.
"You heard me," Craig says, his eyes boring holes in her, "Ever since those videos came through over the wire, you've been all over the place. You are not focused, and you're a distraction to everyone here."
"I am not the one arguing against us doing our jobs," Elizabeth hisses.
"Burning assets on the ground, planning an operation, and risking the lives of a black ops team is not our job! It's a pet project! The only reason you care about these women is because you're a woman. So, forgive me, Elizabeth, if I don't fall in line and go along with your foolish rescue plan."
"This is not about me. It's about them. They are being raped!" she yells.
"What the hell is going on in here?" Conrad's voice cuts through the argument.
Both agents jump to near attention at the sound of the director's voice.
"A disagreement, sir," Craig says in the way a trained Army officer habitually does.
"Sir," Elizabeth begins, "I was trying to reason with Agent Sterling regarding the ten Iraqi women who were abducted, tortured, and are now being used as sex slaves by Al Queda."
Conrad notices the fire in Elizabeth's eyes, covering up the pain he sees there. He knows that looks better than he'd care to admit. He first saw it on his little sister's face the night of her junior prom. He and his father had made sure to end any chance her date had of a football career that night—too rarely were the police ever contacted in those days.
"I'm aware of the situation. The assignment was clear. Find their location and do a feasibility study on getting them out while getting to take out a cell of Al Queda," Conrad explains.
"Yes, sir. And the feasibility study is done," Craig reports.
"That's not all there is to a mission, Craig. We're not just blowing shit up," Elizabeth bites, "Those women are human beings and non-combatant civilians. Throwing a bomb at the situation is a war crime,"
"Misidentification is not a war crime," Craig starts, implying the unthinkable, "And hell, maybe they'll be better off dead; they're used goods."
Conrad looks from Elizabeth to Craig and back again. Elizabeth is shaking, her body is rigid, her teeth clenched.
"Okay," Conrad begins, trying to defuse the bomb that is Elizabeth McCord, "So we have their location. I want both of you to come up with separate plans to take care of the issue. But do it tomorrow. It's after six, and tensions are too high for a healthy working environment. Go home to your families—both of you. We will regroup tomorrow at 10. I want both of you, in front of the board, to present the best plans you can come up with. But I expect both plans to involve the rescue of the civilians and not just the elimination of the terrorist cell. Understood."
He receives mumbled yes sirs from the two agents. He watches them walk away in separate directions before going to call his baby sister.
…X…X…X…
She drives too fast on her way home. It's a dangerous and selfish habit she picked up after 9/11. When she is angry, her mind gets lost in a fog of memories and rage, and driving helps her stay grounded. The roar of the engine is the only thing that keeps her sane.
She stops her car near a house close to the entrance of her subdivision, not daring to pull into her driveway like this. Her hands hit the steering wheel, and her anger explodes.
"Fuck!" She screams.
Her mind races as her body shakes. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe. She will never walk into her home with her heart pounding and rage coursing through her veins—not since she yelled at Stevie for doing nothing but being a child on September 24, 2001, the first time she'd been home since the towers fell.
She sits there, breathing deeply and trying to calm her heart, for fifteen minutes before she finally feels in control enough to drive again.
She puts on a smile as she walks through the garage door.
"Mommy!" Jason yells the second he hears her. He runs and crashes into her.
She lets him lead her through the house. Her mind is still reeling, and she is struggling to concentrate on her son. She needs to find something to take the edge off. She picks up her toddler and follows the sound of chatting to the kitchen. She finds her husband helping Stevie with her homework and Allison coloring at the same table.
"Hello, beautiful people," she says, no longer working to make her smile appear genuine. She knows it's a good one, and her children don't pick up on her distress.
Henry's head snaps up, and he locks eyes with his wife. The smile falls from her lips.
"Hey, baby," he smiles, walking over to her, his arms ready to wrap around her.
"Mm," she hums, leaning into him and pressing her forehead against his chest.
"You okay?" He whispers, pressing a kiss into her hair.
"Just a rough day," she replies, squeezing him tight, nearly crushing their toddler between them.
"Mama, I want down," Jason complains.
"Sorry, baby," she laughs, putting him down and letting him run back to his toys.
She falls back into Henry's arms, her head landing against his chest, her eyes fluttering shut. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her as close as possible.
"Dinner is in an hour," he whispers, knowing it'll make her happy to know she hasn't missed it once again.
She doesn't respond. She can't. Not right now.
"Mom, can you help me?" Stevie asks, "I think Dad is doing the order of operations wrong,"
Elizabeth smiles and pulls out of her husband's arms. She turns her head to look at him. He knows that look. It's the one she has when she is overwhelmed.
He nods his understanding, "Why don't we let Mom have a little break? She just got home. Try the problems yourself, and Mom can check them after dinner, okay?"
"Fine," Stevie huffs, "But I'm right,"
"We'll see," Henry laughs, kissing Elizabeth's forehead before turning back to Allison, "And you, noodle, have to finish that before dinner,"
"Can I help with anything?" She asks softly.
"Go decompress. I'll call you for dinner." He says, smiling.
"Thank you," She breathes.
She retreats to the bathroom, turning the shower on. She undresses and steps into the warm water, letting the tears fall. By the time she gets back downstairs to her family, a switch has flipped.
They eat together. She helps with homework and bath time. She tucks the kids in—something she doesn't get to do enough of anymore. She crawls into bed beside Henry, curling into his side.
"I need you," she whispers.
Henry doesn't question her or her request. He kisses her softly.
"I need you," she breathes against his lips.
"You can have me," he promises.
She's still angry and frustrated, but the fog of new anger and old pain has dissipated, and the memories are fading. In its place is pure desire and the overwhelming need to feel her husband love her fully and completely.
January 7, 2019
Kincaid fakes surprise, and he turns to his old friend, "Conrad, I would never hurt a woman. I have a daughter."
There's an air of confidence around him—as if he's expecting to be immediately believed. And he is almost believably convincing.
Henry sees his wife tense at the man's words, and a new wave of anger rolls through him.
"You did," Elizabeth replies, a cold tone taking over her voice, "On January 5, 1991, You pushed me down on the running trail in Langdon Park. You dragged me into the woods, where you held me down and raped me. When you were finished, you left me there half-naked like I was nothing but a piece of trash."
"Madam Secretary, I assure you, that is not the case," Kincaid says, a fake look of sadness and shock on his face.
"I know it was you," She says. Her voice leaves no room for question of her identification of him.
Kincaid shakes his head, "No. You can't. You must be confused."
"I know it was," Elizabeth says, her jaw set. She's never been more certain of anything in her life.
"Sweetheart, look, if someone did that to you, I'm sorry. But it wasn't me."
Sweetheart—that's what he called her that morning. He has used that same tone of condescension and arrogance. It makes her skin crawl. She loses her sense of composure.
"You don't get to call me that," she says softly.
Henry can hear the tears in his wife's voice. He has remained in control of himself through this interaction. He has let Elizabeth lead the discussion, but when he sees a single tear roll down her cheek, he snaps. He grabs the man by his suit jacket, and his fist connects with Kincaid's nose. The crunch reverberates around the room.
"You raped my wife!" He yells, his fist pulling back to hit again.
Elizabeth feels the room close in on her. The edges of her vision go dark, and she can feel her breath coming in short gasps. This can't happen right now. Not in front of him. It's not fair.
Conrad forces his way between a very pissed-off Henry McCord and a caught-off guard Tom Kincaid.
"Henry! Henry!" He says, forcing his friend back, "Henry, let him go."
"No!" Henry shouts, fighting Conrad, "He deserves it. He fucking raped my wife!"
Conrad is shocked. His old friend has blood pouring down his face from a clearly crushed nose. His favorite protege is having a near panic attack near the treasured Seymour Case Clock. Her husband, a fighter pilot who is habitually in total control of himself, is livid and out for blood.
"Henry! Look at your wife! She does not need you to do this right now!" Conrad orders.
Henry snaps his head around to his wife. Her eyes are glued to him, and she is trembling. Her eyes are wide, and she looks absolutely terrified. He feels his body begin to soften. He takes a deep breath and relaxes the hand still holding tight to Kincaid's jacket.
"Get him the fuck out of here," Henry hisses, his voice low and deadly, "Now."
"I'm okay," Elizabeth whispers.
He can tell she is trying to be strong, and the effort is admirable. He takes another breath and walks toward her. He wants to pull her into his arms, but he thinks that might make her break. If there is one thing he knows he shouldn't do—it's make this worse for her while she's standing in the Oval Office accompanied by the President of the United States and his chief of staff when the daily brief is in fifteen minutes.
"Henry," she whispers.
His name comes out as a broken cry, and her eyes are welling with tears. He knows he's not supposed to touch her. He knows he's supposed to stay away, but he can't.
"I'm sorry," He whispers, reaching out and resting his hand on her bicep.
Conrad takes the reprieve from the spectacle, "Tom, Russell is going to take you to his office to get you cleaned up and have the White House doc take a look at your nose. And Russell, let's push the PDB back by an hour and let Bess re-group. And get Tom a clean shirt."
"Of course, Mr. President," Russell says, "Come with me, Tom."
Conrad sighs, his eyes drifting from his friend to the couple by the grandfather clock, trying so hard to keep it together. He catches the look Tom gives Bess as he walks past her out the door. It causes her to flinch. It makes him sick. He wants to hurt the man just like Henry did, but he can't. There are too many eyes watching, and the press would have a field day with a fistfight between the President and a private military contractor.
"Do you two need a minute?" Conrad asks, gently offering them the room.
Elizabeth finds herself shaking her head. She feels embarrassed and ashamed, and she knows they have work to do.
"I'm sorry," She whispers, tears starting to spill over.
"Baby, don't," Henry says softly, his hand moving to her cheek.
She hits his hand away and wipes her cheek. She takes a deep breath and begins to retreat into professionalism, "I am so sorry, Mr. President."
"Bess, it's all right," Conrad tries to reassure her.
"No. That was beyond unprofessional." She says, straightening her posture.
"Hey, we've known each other too long for that," He reminds her, "I believe you. I believe that he hurt you. I believe you, which is why I need to tell you why he's here today,"
She furrows her brow, "Sir?"
"Kincaid owns a private defense firm, and after much success doling out, honestly, mercs around the world, he wants to make a swing into politics. He's planning on running for Congress this year. He's hoping to be a representative of the second district of Virginia."
"And that's why you have him here." She concludes.
"He was seeking my endorsement. I said I'd have to think about it. He said that would be a shame because the American people are tired of career politicians, and he's the type of man who can really fix the government. He's also hinted at being able to secure funding."
"Wow, Congress." She says. She has her own election coming up in 2020. She'd have to work with him. See him in person or on the news. Be around him at fundraisers. She feels her chest tightening again. She needs to think, but she can't. Not when her head is pounding.
"Are you okay?" Conrad asks, watching as she struggles to keep it together.
"Do you mind if I go out on the colonnade? I need a minute." She says.
Conrad nods.
She slips out the doors, the cool air hitting her. She wraps her arms around herself, her mind racing. She takes a deep breath of the frigid air making her cough. She can feel a panic attack building, and she doesn't have the strength or the willpower to stop it.
She walks the length of the colonnade, letting the icy wind calm her and clear her mind. She needs to think.