Here is the next chapter! I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to leave feedback, I always appreciate it. :)
STATE DEPARTMENT – EARLY MORNING — DAY 2
The sun was barely up, pale light filtering through the windows. The team looked worn, clothes rumpled, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Coffee cups cluttered the table. Blake stood at the digital display, rewinding and replaying security footage from Dulles International Airport. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and faint circles under his eyes suggest he hadn't seen his bed in over 24 hours.
Jay enters, his hair messier than usual, shirt untucked, and eyes bloodshot from fatigue. He moves slowly, his shoulders heavy as if the weight of the world presses down on him. Matt shuffled in behind him, his jacket draped over his arm, his collar crooked. There's a brown stain on his sleeve—probably coffee from one of the countless cups he'd downed. Daisy followed, dark circles shadowing her eyes. She was in yesterday's clothes, blazer creased, and she pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail, stray strands escaping to frame her weary face. Her makeup is smudged, mascara faintly marking her lower eyelids, giving her a haunted look.
"Anyone sleep last night?" Jay asked in a groggy voice, rubbing his face, seemingly trying to expunge the exhaustion from his pores.
"What's that?" Matt answered with a question as he slumped into a chair.
Daisy shook her head. "If I close my eyes, all I see is that explosion replaying over and over."
"Yeah. Me too." Jay paused. "Anyone hear anything... about the Secretary?" He asked with concern.
They all pause, the question hanging heavy. Blake glances at his phone, his face tight.
"Nothing new. Henry's staying with her at the hospital. They're keeping it quiet... but it doesn't sound good." Blake said quietly.
The room falls silent, the weight of worry pressing down. Jay looks back at the screen, his shoulders visibly sagging.
Forcing energy into his voice, Jay said, "Alright. We can't fall apart now. She'd want us to do our jobs. What have we got?"
Blake rewinds the footage, zooming in on a figure in a hoodie and baseball cap moving through the terminal.
Jay looked closer. "What was he doing at Dulles?"
Daisy was skeptical. "He wasn't there to catch a flight."
"Security footage from Dulles. This guy was spotted near the main concourse less than an hour before the explosion. The FBI put it through facial recognition, which tags him as Kyle Bennett—also affiliated with the Jacob Whitman Society. No flight record, no checked bags. He went in, then slipped out." Blake said.
"Hey Jay. Have you noticed this 'Jacob Whitman' guy and you share a last name as you? Maybe you've got some cousins you're not telling us about." Matt asked trying to rub the sleep away from his eyes; inhibition clearly reduced and his judgment lacking.
Jay looked at him impassively. "Yeah, because we're all related. You want to get checked for sleep deprivation, Matt?"
Yawning, Matt answered, "Already confirmed. Twice."
A brief chuckle breaks the tension before they all sober up, realizing the gravity of the situation.
Jay brought his focus back to the task at hand, attentively analyzing the screen. After a brief silence he states, "But that's not Dylan Asher, or are my tired eyes deceiving me?"
"No. That's just it. That's not Asher. Based on his movements and his quick exit, he might have been surveying the terminal in anticipation of the attack. You know, putting his feelers out?" Blake said, wiggling his fingers to imitate an insect's legs. After some hard stares, he slowly withdrew his hands and placed them in his lap.
"Or maybe he was supposed to carry out the attack." Jay started hypothesizing the scenario. "But he backed out. Maybe didn't have the guts to go through with it."
"So he bailed? Classic." Matt perked up although barely awake, his sarcasm slipping through.
Daisy's eyebrows furrowed, generating visible wrinkles on her forehead. "But then why would Asher take his place? Even in a group such as the one we're dealing with, recruiting a member to make the ultimate sacrifice isn't always as easy as it seems. Usually these members have to be so incredibly brainwashed that there's no room for reconsideration."
"He clearly wasn't a lone wolf," replied Blake. "But he doesn't seem like the type to throw his life away."
"Well, duh. Nothing like a terrorist with daddy issues and a death wish to keep us on our toes." Matt's tone was dripping with dry humor and cynicism and his words emerged with a sluggish, dragged-out drawl.
"I'd like to see you pull that off, Matt, on zero sleep." Jay was annoyed.
There was slight curl to his lip, almost a sneer, as he delivered the line. He emphasized "you" and "zero sleep" with a mocking incredulity, making it clear he thought Matt was underestimating just how impossible the task was. However, his annoyance wasn't just about the comment—it's fueled by his sleep-deprived state, amplifying his frustration.
A yawn escaped from Matt's mouth again. "Yeah, well, you've got a point." His response was tinged with reluctant acknowledgment, a sign of resignation as he realized he couldn't argue with Jay's logic.
Jay continued, "As we well know, looks can be deceiving. He could have been looking for a cause... and he found one. When Bennett backed out, Asher volunteered to take his place."
"Wow. Gotta love a guy who'll do someone else's dirty work." Matt retorted.
Finally, Jay lets out a slow, exasperated breath as he realizes Matt isn't going to quit. "Okay, man, you've gotta stop."
Matt raised both hands in surrender. "Fine, fine."
Daisy had been silently connecting the dots. "So Bennett chickened out, and Asher went through with it to prove himself." She repeated out loud to make sure her tired brain interpreted everything correctly.
"We need to think about why. Especially since we won't have his own testimony." Jay's mind stared to run again and he paced the room. "He wanted to send a message. Make a name for himself."
"So, Asher was the one willing to die for the cause. And Bennett…" Daisy added.
"Was just a coward hiding behind his ideology. He didn't have the guts to go through with it, but he had no problem letting Asher die for him." Blake gestured with his hands to emphasize his points.
Jay doesn't wait for an invitation. "We need to find Bennett. Asher's gone, and Bennett's the only one who knows the full plan and can lead us to the ringleader." He doesn't dominate with volume but with sheer presence. Jay's confidence filled the room, pulling everyone into his orbit.
With a nod, Blake replied, "Already on it. He went underground after the attack, but his last known location was in Virginia. Homeland Security's pulling surveillance feeds now."
The door opened, and Nadine entered, looking just as exhausted but composed.
"Nadine. Where were you last night?" There was a hint of surprise in Daisy's question as papers slipped slightly from her grasp.
"We tried calling... a lot." Matt's words dragged slightly, an emphasis on the last two words which carried a weary, almost accusing tone. He gave Nadine a pointed look that spoke volumes about just how many times they'd tried.
Nadine explicitly avoided eye contact. "I… I needed some air. Had to clear my head."
"You went radio silent last night and this morning. We were worried." Jay expressed concernedly.
Nadine reassured the team with a heavy sigh. "I'm fine. I just... I needed to be alone for a while. Process everything."
She set the files down with trembling hands.
"We get it. It was... a lot." Blake said.
Nadine turned her attention to the two images on the screen. Her countenance displayed a callous demeanor. "Who are they?" She asked.
"Kyle Bennett. The coward who was supposed to be the suicide bomber. And Dylan Asher—the one who was." Replied Blake.
Nadine pressed her lips together firmly, causing them to appear thinner. "So they targeted the Secretary,… because she threatened their twisted worldview." There was a deficiency in rising intonation, making her response more of a statement.
"They were willing to die to make a statement. And if they were ready to do that…" Jay's voice trailed off.
"There might be more." Daisy finished.
"Exactly. We need to find Bennett. And fast." Jay said, making a chopping gesture with his hand. It was a quick, decisive motion that stressed the need for swift action.
"I'll coordinate with Homeland Security. And, much to my hesitancy, ask to meet with Russel Jackson. We'll pull out every resource we've got. Let's help bring this coward in." Nadine declared with her hands clasped in front of her, denoting her authority and her desire to maintain control over the situation.
Conveying confidence in the Chief of Staff's decision-making, they all embarked on their responsibilities, the clock ticking as they race to prevent another attack.
WHITE HOUSE COFFEE KIOSK - EARLY MORNING - DAY 2
The self-serve coffee kiosk inside the White House was quieter than usual. It was unclear as to why this was. Wouldn't the White House be bustling with a constant stream of incoming work: bodies darting from one place to another, phones ringing frequently, juggling multiple tasks? Particularly after a terrorist attack on domestic soil? It was conceivably possible that people were working in highly classified areas or they chose not to come into work and instead went to leave flowers or items of meaning at the site — an assurance that beauty and solace exist in a place of such hatred and darkness. They are the weapons of choice to disarm violence.
Stevie McCord stood at the counter, mechanically pressing buttons on the coffee machine, her movements precise but distracted as she tries to go through the motions of a normal morning. She barely slept. She has not had time to process what happened yesterday — not when there's work to do, not when her mom's in the hospital and her dad is bearing the brunt. Stevie was not going to sit around and wallow.
As the coffee filled her cup, she heard the faint shuffle of footsteps approaching. Without looking, she knew it was Russel. The last thing she wanted to deal with was his intense demeanor and sharp tongue, that would ultimately leave her feeling cornered, especially if he tried to manipulate her into something she didn't agree with. Stevie did not have the bandwidth to withstand the overwhelming pressure she was constantly put under with this job, and standing her ground against someone as powerful and experienced as Russell was never easy. At the same time, her stubborn streak had usually aided her in the ability to resist being strong-armed. She needed to use that to her full advantage this morning.
"Stevie." Russel's authoritative voice pierced through Stevie's thoughts.
His tone caused Stevie body to stiffen, but doesn't turn around immediately. She presses a button for more coffee, attempting to make it appear as though her concentration was on her drink. But she knew there was no escaping the conversation.
"What's up, Russel?" Stevie asked unenthusiastically.
Russel encroached on Stevie's personal space, standing just behind her, arms crossed, observing her with an expression that wasn't quite anger, but definitely impatience.
"You really think I'm going to let you get away with this?" He asked, a callousness embedded within his tone.
Stevie rolled her eyes, her posture stiffening as she finally turned to face him. She forced a smile, but it's thin and strained. A flicker of self-doubt had emerged within her, wondering if she was being naive by refusing to play the game. But she knew her instincts to protect her boundaries and her family's values would win out, even if it meant clashing with Russell in the process.
"Let me get away with what? I'm just getting my coffee." Stevie shrugged, willfully ignorant.
Russel stepped forward, his voice lowering but still carrying weight. Pleasantries and formalities were far-removed, and he had to make a tremendous effort contain his usual burst of vitriol.
"You know damn well what I mean. Do your parents know you're here?" Jeered Russel.
Stevie set her coffee cup down a little harder than intended, her hand lingering on the counter. The reality of the situation felt like a constant boulder that was crushing her spine, becoming increasingly more difficult to carry without breaking in two. It was a ceaseless battle to try and maintain her composure.
"No, they don't, and I don't want them to know. I'm fine. I'm doing my job. Like I'm supposed to." Stevie replied promptly.
Russel's expression conveyed his dissatisfaction regarding Stevie's response to his question. He advanced a few strides forward, further reducing the aperture between them. His voice maintained its controlled intensity, commanding attention, but there was also an undercurrent of genuine concern that Stevie wanted to disregard.
Russel spoke bluntly, "I'm not going to make you, but I'll tell you this—you're not in a position to be pushing everyone away right now. Not after what happened. Your job is not to shut down and pretend everything's fine. Yesterday was a damn bomb blast, Stevie. Your mom could've been killed, and your dad... he's not even coherent half the time. You think it's normal to just barrel through like this?"
Stevie's breath catches slightly, but she quickly recovers, pushing back with her usual sharpness.
"I don't need you to tell me what's normal. I've got it under control. Please don't tell my parents?"
Russel gave her a sharp look, not buying her act for a second. He leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. His expression was a mix of concern and frustration, like he'd seen this all too many times before.
He replied in a constrained voice, "Under control? You're not even letting yourself breathe. You're avoiding dealing with anything. And I get it, you think that if you just keep moving, keep working, it'll all go away. But it won't." He pauses. "Listen. I don't care how tough you think you are. I don't care if you want to throw yourself into your work. But you're not just anyone here. You're my intern. And everything you do reflects on me." Russel takes another pause and runs his hand down his face. "I won't say anything. But don't expect me to keep covering for you. You're not invisible here."
The mask of indifference on Stevie's face slipped into place again as she looked past him, avoiding his gaze.
"I'm fine. I'm working. That's what I do."
Stevie's fingers gripped her coffee cup even tighter as the tension is exhibited in the way she carried herself. A voice was nagging at her to push back and to tell him to mind his own business, but something in his tone cut through the walls she had been so carefully building. She turned away quickly, her eyes not quite meeting his.
Russel shook his head, letting out an exaggerated sigh. He was clearly frustrated, however he was unwilling to back off. His voice was a little lower, more pointed.
"You're not fine, Stevie. Trying to get through the day isn't the same as dealing with what's happened. You know that, right? You think you're doing yourself a favor by burying yourself in coffee and paperwork? Your mom's fighting for her life in a hospital bed, your dad's struggling, and you're out here acting like nothing happened? If you don't take a step back and deal with this, you're going to crash, and I'm not letting you do that."
Stevie's eyes meet his, the anger in her voice barely masking the hurt that's threatening to spill over. She had been hearing this a lot lately, from her brother, from her dad, from everyone. It was easier to deflect, easier to throw herself into work than to feel what's actually going on inside.
"I don't need a babysitter. I'm not some helpless child, Russel," Stevie said coldly.
Russel's expression hardened, but his tone doesn't waver. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Stevie. I'm telling you to take a break. I don't care if it's for an hour, but stop. You're running yourself ragged, and I won't watch you burn out. You're my assistant. You're part of the team. And I'm telling you, right now, this is not the way to handle it. If you keep this up—if you keep acting like nothing happened, like you're not carrying the weight of the world—I'm going to look bad. And that is not something I can afford."
As someone who valued honesty and personal integrity, Stevie was frustrated by Russell's tendency to prioritize strategy over sincerity. She stood there for a moment as the weight of his words sank in despite herself. But instead of letting his words continue to fester, she snapped, "So this is about you looking bad, is it?"
Russel did not react, he didn't even flinch; he held his ground and have a straightforward response. "Of course it is. But it's also about you. About you not burning out. You're not invincible, and I don't want to watch you fall apart. I'm telling you this because I care, Stevie. But if you think I'm going to let you drag me down with your mess, you're wrong."
There was a long pause between them, the words hanging in the air, thick with unspoken tension. Stevie maintained eye contact with Russel.
"I'm not dragging anyone down," she replied briskly. "And I'll take a break when I'm damn well ready to take a break."
Russel doesn't move, doesn't back down. He wasn't done yet.
"I don't think you understand, Stevie. This isn't about when you're ready. You're not okay. And I'm not letting you keep going until you admit it. You might not dragging anyone down now, but if you keep pretending everything's fine, that's exactly what you'll do. And I'll be the one to clean it up."
Stevie exhaled through her nose. There was simmering frustration — not just at Russell, but at the entire political machine that seemed to drag her family into impossible situations. "You're wasting your breath, Russel. I'll take care of it. But my way."
He studied her for a moment, his expression softening just a fraction, but the intensity in his eyes was unrelenting.
Russel begrudgingly obliges. "You can say that all you want, Stevie. But don't say I didn't warn you. You're not invincible, Stevie. You're gonna hit a wall eventually. And at the end of the day, if you keep running from this, it won't just affect you. It'll affect all of us. So figure it out. Now."
Stevie kept her feet firmly planted on the ground beneath her, her breath shallow, but for a moment, she didn't speak. The last thing she wanted to do was admit that Russel might be right—that she might be running on empty. But there was a truth in his words she couldn't escape, no matter how hard she tried.
"I'll take care of it." She said quietly.
Sternly, but with the slightest hint of care, Russel replied, "Good. Because I don't want to have to do this again."
Stevie nodded once, stiffly, before she grabbed her coffee cup and walked past him, trying to put distance between herself and Russel's words. She could feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't look back. The silence in the air is almost oppressive. Russel watched her go, frustration still simmering beneath the surface of his professional exterior, but he knows he's done all he can for now. Stevie's reluctance to involve her parents added a layer of complexity to the dynamic between them. He didn't agree with her decision, but he wasn't going to press her on it—not right now.
As Stevie disappeared around the corner, Russel sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. He may have reluctantly agreed not to tell her parents, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she's pushing everyone away, and that's something he couldn't just let slide.
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - EARLY MORNING - DAY 2
President Conrad Dalton stepped out of his motorcade and into the crisp morning air. The scent of smoke still clung to the wind, faint but unmistakable, an uninvited reminder of the chaos that had unfolded less than twenty-four hours ago. His gaze swept over the twisted metal barricades, the shattered windows now hastily covered with plywood, and the dark scorch marks licking up the side of the terminal wall. Emergency personnel moved with exhausted determination, their faces heavy with the weight of what they had seen.
Dalton stood at the edge of the terminal, assessing the damage. His detail flanked him, their eyes scanning every corner of the scene. He knew this visit wasn't without risk — emotions were raw, and no amount of security could erase the fear that still clung to this place. But this wasn't about him. It never had been.
Despite the morning sun, the place felt cold. Quiet. Too quiet.
He exhaled heavily, his breath curling in the air.
"This is worse than I expected," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Russell Jackson stepped beside him, smoothing his tie in that sharp, precise way of his. "Sir, you don't have to be here. The optics are covered — we've got FEMA, local authorities—"
Dalton cut him off with a pointed look. "I do have to be here." His voice was firm, brooking no argument.
Russell sighed, shifting his weight like he was deciding how hard to push. "Just… be careful what you say. People are scared. They're looking for answers."
Dalton's eyes flicked back to the terminal. "They're looking for someone to tell them it's going to be okay." He squared his shoulders. "Let's go."
Dalton adjusted his suit jacket once more and stepped inside the terminal. It was dimly lit, the overhead fixtures still flickering from the power surge caused by the blast. Emergency crews were scattered throughout — paramedics kneeling beside supply kits, firefighters slumped in chairs catching their breath, exhausted airport staff trying to piece together what had been normal life just a day before.
Dalton paused near a shattered window. He pressed his lips together, feeling that familiar ache in his chest — the one he'd felt the day following that awful morning in 2001 — standing in front of the CIA staff, feeling the same pit of uncertainty that churned in his gut now. The weight of helplessness. The frustration of knowing that no matter how hard you worked, you couldn't undo what had already happened.
"This... this shouldn't have happened," Dalton murmured. Each syllable sounds pressed, as though he was trying to push his voice past a lump in his throat.
Russell shifted beside him, uncharacteristically quiet.
Dalton ran a hand over his face, then straightened and turned toward a group of first responders gathered near a service desk. They looked up as he approached, their uniforms stained with soot and their eyes hollow with fatigue.
"Mr. President," one firefighter said, rising to his feet.
Dalton raised a hand. "Please," he said. "Don't get up."
The firefighter hesitated, then sank back into his seat.
The president looked around before clearing his throat.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. The room turned toward him. "I know you've been through hell." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group — the paramedics, the firefighters, the airport staff. "And I know you're tired... and maybe even wondering if what you're doing is making a difference. But I need you to hear me when I say this — what you're doing here? It matters."
A few heads nodded faintly, but no one spoke. The silence hung heavy.
Dalton swallowed hard, then too a breath, grounding himself in the memory. "I remember what it felt like after 9/11," he said. "I was at the CIA then, and when I walked into the office the next morning, the whole room felt... frozen. Like no one knew what to say or how to move forward." He paused, his gaze scanning the tired faces before him. "I told them what I'm telling you now: We can't let fear win. The people out there — the ones who are terrified, who lost someone — they're looking to you to show them that life doesn't stop here. That this country doesn't break that easily."
He let that hang for a beat, then added quietly, "I also said this: if anyone couldn't do it — if they needed to go home, to grieve, to be with their family — there'd be no shame in that. No questions asked."
He paused. "But no one left."
The room was silent, except for the distant echo of construction equipment outside. A paramedic wiped her soot-covered face with the back of her hand, and Dalton gave her a small nod — a quiet acknowledgment of her strength.
"Look," he said finally, his voice firm once more, "I know this is hard. But you're here, and that says something. It says you're exactly who this country needs right now." He paused again. "In moments like this… people like you show up."
The crowd stood a little straighter. One firefighter nodded, then another. Dalton offered a faint smile.
"Thank you for your service," he said. "And thank you for staying."
He turned to leave, but before he could take a step, the young paramedic nearest to him spoke up.
"We're not going anywhere, sir," she said, her voice hoarse but steady.
Dalton smiled — just a small, tired smile — but one that carried weight.
"I didn't think you would," he said quietly.
For a moment, no one moved. Then the firefighter stood, this time not because Dalton was the President, but because he wanted to shake the man's hand. Dalton gripped it firmly, gratitude settling in his chest.
As Dalton turned back toward the entrance, Russell murmured, "Well... you're still pretty good at this."
Dalton huffed a small laugh. "Yeah," he muttered. "I've had some practice."
WALTER REED HOSPITAL – EARLY MORNING — DAY 2
A soft knock on the door awoke Henry with a start. He blinks rapidly, disoriented for a moment before he registers the change in the light and the faint murmur of a new nurse entering the room. It was a fresh shift, and she moved quietly to Elizabeth's side, checking the monitors, adjusting the IV bags, and gently tapping her clipboard as she made her notes.
Henry doesn't move immediately. He stays in his chair, his eyes on Elizabeth's face. The dawn light spills gently through the blinds, casting warm rays across the room. There's a quiet, tentative hope in the air now, a sense of something shifting, as if the rising sun seemed to whisper that whatever came before is now behind, and a new chapter is waiting to be written. It was a gentle reminder that hope isn't always loud; sometimes, it's simply the soft glow of light chasing away the dark.
The nurse finishes her work and looks at Henry, offering a kind smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's seen this before—families waiting, clinging to each passing moment, to the smallest signs of recovery.
"How are we doing this morning?" The nurse asked gently.
Henry cleared his throat, still groggy from the sleepless hours that passed, but his voice is steady, albeit a little raw.
"She's... she's still the same. I think." His response came out slightly hoarse.
The nurse doesn't push him, instead she nods and starts the routine of checking vitals and adjusting the machines. Henry's gaze never leaves Elizabeth. The morning light dances across her face now, a soft contrast to the harshness of the previous day.
Her hand twitches in his. Just a slight movement. It's enough to make his breath catch in his chest. Henry sits up straighter, leaning toward her, as if the smallest shift in her body is a sign, a flicker of life after everything she's been through. Her eyes flutter open, slowly, and then close again, but there's something in the motion that makes Henry's heart race. He leans forward even more, desperate, his voice barely above a whisper.
He spoke softly, "Elizabeth?"
She doesn't respond immediately. The quiet stillness stretches between them, and for a moment, Henry feels that awful weight of uncertainty again, the sense that she might slip away from him. But then her eyes open again, a little more slowly this time, and they meet his.
Elizabeth's gaze is unfocused, cloudy with the remnants of sleep and painkillers, but there's a spark in them, a flicker of recognition. She blinks a few times, trying to process the room around her, the voices, the sounds. Her lips part slightly as if to speak, but no words come. The effort is too much for her right now.
Henry's fingers slide from her hand to her cheek, brushing softly against her skin. His touch is warm, grounding her.
"Hey, hey... you're awake." Relief flooded his voice.
Elizabeth blinks again, and her breath comes in a shallow, labored rhythm. Her chest rises slightly, and then her hand moves—hesitant, weak—but she reaches toward him, her fingers brushing his. The soft beeping of the monitor was the first thing Elizabeth registered. The steady rhythm grounded her, giving her something to focus on as she drifted toward consciousness. Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish. The dull ache that pulsed in her side was distant, softened by whatever pain medications they had her on.
Slowly, her eyelids flickered open. The room was dim, the faint morning light seeping through the blinds.
"Henry…" She said in her unique raspy voice, although it was weak.
Her voice is strained, but hearing her say his name is enough to bring tears to his eyes. He leans in closer, his own voice tight with emotion.
"Hey, baby."
Henry's voice was low and warm, full of quiet relief. He was at her side, leaning in just enough to be close but not hovering. His hand was wrapped gently around hers, his thumb moving in slow, calming strokes across her skin. He looked exhausted — eyes shadowed, hair slightly tousled — but his smile was steady.
Elizabeth blinked up at him, her voice raspy. "Hey." Her throat felt dry, and the word barely escaped.
"Hold on." Henry reached for the cup of ice chips on the table. He scooped a few onto the small spoon, carefully bringing it to her lips. "Just a little."
She let the coolness melt in her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, Henry was still watching her.
"How long?" she managed.
"About twenty-four hours," Henry said softly. "You were pretty out of it. They've had you on a fairly high dose morphine, but they've marginally reduced the amount. "
Elizabeth gave a faint smile. "That explains... everything feeling like mashed potatoes."
Henry huffed a quiet laugh — that small, familiar chuckle she knew so well. "Yeah, you've been pretty loopy. Almost started serenading the nurse yesterday to Peter Frampton."
Elizabeth groaned. "God... tell me I didn't."
"No," Henry reassured her, his smile widening. "But you did tell the doctor you wanted a 'five-star Yelp review' for not killing you in surgery."
Elizabeth winced. "Great."
Henry's face softened again, his smile fading just slightly. He leaned in a little closer, his fingers tightening around hers. "You scared me."
"I know," Elizabeth murmured, her voice quieter now. Her hand shifted weakly in his, squeezing back as best she could. "I'm okay."
Henry exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding his breath for hours. "I know." His thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles again.
"Just... stay okay, alright?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Elizabeth promised, her eyes holding his. Even tired and aching, there was still that strength in her gaze — that fire that never quite went out.
Henry smiled faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. "Good."
"Henry…" Her voice was soft but urgent. "What happened? The bombing... the people… Yazmin Nazari?"
Henry's expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed the concern he was trying to mask. He squeezed her hand, a gentle but firm gesture meant to ground her. "Elizabeth, you need to rest right now," he said, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of protectiveness. "I'll fill you in on everything as more comes to light and when you're stronger."
Elizabeth's brow furrowed, frustration creeping into her voice. "I can't just rest, Henry. I need to know what's going on. The world doesn't stop just because—"
"Elizabeth," Henry interrupted, his tone soft but with that familiar quiet authority. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm. "You've done everything you could. You've set things in motion, and people are handling it. Right now, you need to focus on getting better."
Her eyes narrowed, sharp despite her exhaustion. "I can't afford to just sit here while—"
"I know you don't want to," Henry cut in, his voice gentle but insistent. "But the people you've trained, the team you've built, they're in charge right now. Trust them. Trust yourself. You've done your part."
Elizabeth let out a deep sigh, clearly not satisfied, but she was too tired to argue. The energy drained out of her as she settled back against the pillow, her eyes closing again, her hand still clutching Henry's. "You're sure...?" Her voice was a little more vulnerable now, but there was still that unmistakable edge of authority behind it.
"I'm sure," Henry answered, his hand brushing her hair back from her forehead. "You've built a solid team. They're capable. But you need to heal first. That's your priority right now."
Elizabeth blinked a few times and swallowed hard. "What about the kids... are they okay?"
"They're okay, Elizabeth. They're fine." Henry answered with certainty.
Elizabeth's gaze drifts toward the ceiling, and for a moment, she looks lost in thought, as though she's gathering herself, piecing together the fragments of her own reality.
Elizabeth was silent for a moment, her breath evening out as she processed his words. Even in her weakened state, her mind was still active, pulling at the threads of what had happened, but her body refused to comply. "You're right. Of course, you're right." She closed her eyes, the exhaustion pulling her back under. "Stay."
"I'm not going anywhere," Henry echoed her earlier response to the same question. He settled back into his chair, his hand remaining gently in hers, offering the quiet, constant presence she needed. The nurse adjusted the IV one last time and quietly left the room.
The morning light was fully in the room now, washing over them with a kind of quiet promise. Elizabeth's breathing slowed as she drifted back into a lighter sleep, the weight of the world still on her shoulders but, for a moment, temporarily at rest. Henry stayed by her side, his calm, steady presence the anchor she had always relied on. Elizabeth was still fragile, still battling the aftermath of the attack, but Henry knew they'd crossed some invisible threshold.
STATE DEPARTMENT – MID MORNING - DAY 2
Blake's fingers trembled as he scrolled through the endless stream of notifications on his laptop. News alerts, social media posts, message threads—it was a digital wildfire, and at the heart of it all was a link spreading like a virus. He hesitated before clicking, his stomach twisting as the page loaded.
A manifesto appeared, stark and unrelenting. The title blared: "Defending Our Homeland: A Stand Against Invasion." Blake's face paled as he read the words, each line more venomous than the last. It was a vicious diatribe against immigration, painting foreigners as invaders and traitors. The manifesto preached extremist nationalism, calling for violent action to "preserve the purity" of the nation. It didn't just stop at ideology—it named Elizabeth McCord directly, condemning her as a traitor for her pro-immigration policies.
Blake's vision blurred as he read the threats, his breath catching in his throat. He forced himself to pick up the phone, dialing with shaking hands. "Matt, you need to get to the conference room. Now."
After a few minutes, Matt Mahoney burst into the room, his hair disheveled, shirt untucked. "What the hell is going on now?" It was evident that he was awoken from his much-needed nap.
Blake wordlessly turned the laptop around, the screen facing Matt. As Matt read the manifesto, his face contorted with anger and fear. "Jesus... anti-immigration? Extremist nationalism? This is..."
"Everything she stood against," Blake finished, his voice hollow. "They targeted her because she fought for them... for people like Yasmin Nazari."
Matt clenched his jaw. "We have to get ahead of this. If this goes viral..."
"It already has," Daisy said, bursting into the room, a tablet in her hand. "It's everywhere. And it's spiraling out of control."
Matt looked at her, his expression grim. "How bad is it?"
Daisy's voice wavered as she spoke. "Conspiracy theories are flooding social media. They're claiming Elizabeth orchestrated the attack to push her immigration agenda. They're calling it a false flag operation."
Blake's eyes widened in horror. "That's absurd! She almost died—"
"It doesn't matter," Daisy interrupted. "The narrative is out there now, and it's spreading faster than we can contain it."
Matt ran his hands through his hair, pacing the room. "Okay... okay... We need a statement. Something definitive, something that cuts through the noise."
"What do we say? 'No, the Secretary of State didn't stage an attack on herself'? It sounds insane just saying it out loud." Questioned Blake in an unsteady voice.
"It doesn't matter how insane it sounds," Daisy snapped, her voice cracking. "Perception is reality. And right now, the internet's perception is that Elizabeth McCord is the enemy."
Matt turned to Daisy with conviction. "Get me every verified fact we have. I don't care how small. We need to drown out the noise with the truth. And get the White House on the line. We can't fight this alone."
Daisy nodded, already dialing. "On it."
Matt turned back to Blake. "You need to be ready for the press. They're going to come at us hard."
"I'm ready. I'll do whatever it takes." Blake swallowed, nodding in agreement.
The tension in Matt's face eased for a moment. "We're going to get her through this. We have to."
Blake's voice almost faltered. "I just want her to be okay."
WALTER REED HOSPITAL — AFTERNOON — DAY 2
The steady rhythmic pulses of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, the beeping evenly spaced, creating a predictable, almost calming pattern. Henry needed a moment to step out and regain composure — taking a walk in the hospital gardens and going sit in the chapel, giving him time and space to deal with his own feelings of fear, frustration, and helplessness. His calm demeanor is often a shield, but after seeing Elizabeth hurt, he needed a quiet moment to compose himself, so that when he returned, he could be the calm and supportive presence she needed.
Elizabeth lay propped up against the hospital bed pillows, her tired eyes reading between the lines of briefing papers Henry had reluctantly agreed to bring her. Elizabeth had always been someone who felt personally responsible for the well-being of the nation and its citizens. And she was not one to sit idly by, especially when national security or international relations were on the line. Henry understood Elizabeth's deep commitment to her role as Secretary of State, and he knew she would want to stay informed with reports on the latest diplomatic fallout. He recognized that, for her, being involved somehow, even from a hospital bed, helped maintain her sense of purpose and control, even though she was still physically unwell. He respected her need to remain engaged and, by leaving her the documents, he was allowing her to be involved in the decision-making process, even if it was just mentally for the moment.
Elizabeth was still wearing a nasal cannula, the thin tubes curving over her cheeks and around her ears, a constant reminder of her weakened state. Bandages were wrapped snugly around her head, peeking out from under her tousled blonde hair; her leg was elevated with a few pillows. Elizabeth's hospital gown had slipped slightly off one shoulder, but she hadn't bothered to modestly adjust it, too drained to care.
Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the stack of documents Henry had left by her bedside, the weight of each page feeling heavier than it should. Until now, she had not taken notice to the blood that had dried underneath her fingernails. Was it hers? Was it someone else's? She didn't know. Her entire body felt like it was made of lead, each breath shallow, and her head throbbed with a dull ache that still had not faded.
Elizabeth's vision blurred as she tried to focus on the words in front of her, but the morphine haze still lingered, clouding her thoughts. She could feel the sharpness of the urgency, the pull of duty gnawing at her even though her body refused to cooperate. With each page, she scanned the details, but her movements were sluggish, deliberate, each one a small battle as her limbs begged for rest. Her fingers, pale and braised, traced the lines of text, but it was slow, each word requiring more concentration than usual. Elizabeth couldn't keep the frustration from flickering across her face—she hated feeling vulnerable like this, unable to push through. With every turn of a page, she winced in pain. She tried to focus on the situation at hand, on the critical decisions, but the weight of her fatigue made it harder with every passing minute.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as she leaned back against the pillows, the documents falling lightly onto the bed beside her. Her hands rested on her aching abdomen. She didn't have the strength to read them all now.
There was a knock on the door. Before she could answer, the door swung open, and President Dalton stepped in, his presence filling the small room with an air of authority that felt out of place next to the sterile hospital decor. He was dressed in his usual dark suit, the American flag pin gleaming on his lapel, but his expression was softer than she was used to seeing.
Behind him, Russel Jackson trailed in, his shoulders rigid, eyes scanning the room like he was assessing a security threat. When his gaze settled on her, his jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat. "I, uh... I had a few things to go over with the President. Figured I'd... make sure he didn't get lost on his way up here," he muttered, his voice gruff but his eyes betraying a flicker of relief as they swept over her, taking in the fact that she was still there, alive.
Elizabeth's lips curled into a small smile, her fingers absently smoothing the thin hospital blanket. "I didn't realize navigating a hospital required an escort. Nice of you to take on the duty, Russel," she teased lightly, her eyes sparkling.
Russel's mouth twitched, his usual scowl softening. "Yeah, well, someone's got to make sure he doesn't cause an international incident on the way to the elevator," he retorted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, pretending to inspect his phone.
Dalton shot him a sideways glance before stepping closer to Elizabeth's bed, his expression shifting from amusement to concern.
"How are you feeling, Bess?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes softening as they traced the bruises still visible along her jawline. "I would've come sooner, but I figured you didn't need the added stress of a presidential entourage in your room."
Elizabeth's smile softened, a warmth spreading through her chest. "I appreciate that," she replied, her voice steady despite the lump forming in her throat. "I'm... hanging in there. I'm tougher than I look, you know."
Dalton's lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders tightening. "I never doubted that. But you didn't deserve this, Elizabeth. None of you did." His gaze flicked to the bandages peeking out from under her hair, his jaw clenching. "We're going to find out who did this. I promise you that."
Elizabeth's eyes hardened, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. "Find them," she said, her voice low and fierce. "And make sure they never get another chance."
Dalton nodded, his expression resolute. "That's the plan." He hesitated, his eyes involuntarily fixated on the IV pole standing vigil by her bedside. His shoulders sagged just slightly before he spoke again, his voice quieter. "I filled Henry in on the details of what he needed to know... about the investigation, the situation back at State. He'll relay those to you when you're ready. No rush, Bess. Focus on getting better first."
Elizabeth's chest tightened, gratitude and frustration warring within her. She hated feeling weak, hated feeling out of the loop. But she was thankful for the small mercy Dalton offered—time to heal before she plunged back into the chaos. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice just above a breath. "I appreciate that."
A brief silence settled over the room, heavy with unspoken fears and lingering questions. Russel shifted uncomfortably by the door, his eyes flicking back to Elizabeth. "Your staff is holding up. They're... keeping things moving," he muttered, his tone almost begrudgingly gentle. "I may have had to remind Jay that sleep is not optional."
Elizabeth's eyes softened, a mixture of relief and worry flashing across her face. "They're good. The best. I knew they'd handle it," she said quietly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "But they shouldn't have to."
Russel looked away, his jaw tightening. "No. They shouldn't. But they're doing it anyway. For you." His voice was rough, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Dalton glanced between them, his features relaxing into a gentle expression. "You have a good team, Elizabeth. And... some people who care about you more than they'll admit," he added, his eyes lingering on Russel, who scoffed, his cheeks coloring.
"Yeah, well... someone's got to keep this ship from sinking while she's busy playing hooky," Russel grumbled, his arms tightening across his chest. "Besides, I couldn't let Cushing get too comfortable in that chair."
Elizabeth laughed, the sound light and warm, easing the tension that had filled the room. "You mean you couldn't let him mess with your spreadsheets," she teased, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
Russel rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Those are proprietary. He wouldn't know how to use them anyway," he muttered, his shoulders relaxing as he met her gaze. "But... for what it's worth... it's good to see you sitting up, McCord. Better than the alternative."
Elizabeth's eyes softened, gratitude washing over her. "Thanks, Russel."
He looked away, clearing his throat roughly. "Yeah, well, don't make me say it twice," he mumbled before glancing at his watch. "I've got a briefing to get to."
Dalton watched him retreat, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "For someone who claims to hate hospitals, he sure found a convenient excuse to come up here," he noted, his eyes twinkling.
Elizabeth shook her head, laughter dancing in her eyes. "Yeah... I noticed that too."
Dalton's expression grew serious again as he reached out, squeezing her hand. "Get better, Bess. We need you back... but take the time you need. That's an order," he added, his voice gentle but firm.
Elizabeth's throat tightened, emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "Yes, sir," she whispered, her fingers curling around his.
Dalton released her hand, stepping back as he straightened his suit jacket. "I'll see myself out... before Russel sends a search party," he joked, his smile warm as he turned toward the door.
He hesitated, his shoulders stiffening before he looked back at her, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. "Take care of yourself, Bess. That's an order too."
Elizabeth's heart twisted, her voice catching in her throat. "I will," she promised, her eyes never leaving his as he nodded once and walked out, the door clicking softly behind him.
Left alone in the quiet room, Elizabeth leaned back against her pillows, her eyes drifting to the sunlight streaming through the window. For the first time in days, she felt a glimmer of hope. She wasn't alone. And somehow... they'd get through this. Together.