A/N: This is a long one, but it sets up a lot of...shtuff. Tension, one might say. Suspense, others might say. Romance, other others might say.

Hope you enjoy :)

Elizabeth | Post-Extraction – 176 Hours

The jolting of the plane woke her, causing her to startle and pull her head from Henry's arm. A stiffness in her neck greeted her quickly, and then she saw Marines coming through the aisle way as the plane slowed to a halt on the runway.

She blinked a couple times as her hand rested on the side of her neck, massaging the tense muscles there that had been stretched for—well, about ten hours. "Did I sleep the entire way?" She asked, looking at Henry with her eyes squinted.

He nodded, "Mhm," he said, "Unless you woke up when I was asleep."

She turned forward again and saw that it was nighttime, and she closed her eyes again and let out a long exhale. Back in the States, she thought to herself, dragging her eyelids apart to see the lights from the airport shining through the window, back to your life.

She swallowed thick and started unbuckling her seatbelt, her grogginess making her feel like she was moving in slow motion when everything around her was spinning. Fumbling with the buckle for a moment, Henry noticed and reached over, helping her with the buttons. She rubbed her hand and realized how sore it still was, too—everything was sore. Just another reminder of what happened.

When he stood up, he walked to grab her crutches from underneath the bench seat on the other side. They had slid down on the plane's descent toward the cabin. "You alright?" Henry asked when he got back.

She looked up at him and rubbed her eye, "I'm alright," she murmured, unsure if she was lying to him or to herself, too. Carefully, she rocked from her bucket seat and suppressed a groan when her stiff, unused leg felt the weight of the rest of her body. She bit her lip and took the crutches as Henry watched her every move.

His eyes were on her the entire time she moved through the aisle, careful to not catch her crutches on the seats or anything else. She was back Stateside now—she wasn't going to have Henry around to help her all the time. She wasn't going to have anyone around to help her at all. She needed to prove to herself—and maybe to him, too—that she would be okay on her own.

When she got to the ramp, she looked out over it. It seemed much steeper going down than it had coming up, and she saw the little water droplets that had settled in on the metal since it had been deployed. "It's raining," she mumbled, realizing it aloud mostly to herself, but Henry answered.

"Yeah," he mumbled, "One of the guys came and told me it might be a bumpy descent because of the storm."

She stood at the top of the ramp and gripped her crutches tightly, swallowing hard.

"I was afraid you'd wake up," Henry added.

She looked over her shoulder at him and took a shaky breath, "I'm surprised I didn't," she said, but then she thought about how silly that statement was. She'd been so exhausted that it was no surprise she stayed asleep through it all until the jostling of the landing woke her. She was, however, surprised that she'd slept so long for so many consecutive hours—this was a record that beat even her last night in the hospital with Henry at the foot of her bed.

But her neck feels it—she'd definitely been asleep, in that same position with her head resting on Henry's arm, for the whole ten hours. Her muscles confirmed.

She looked back down over the ramp and took a tiny step forward, and she held her breath as the rubber of her crutch met the metal ramp. It slid immediately, but she caught herself.

"Here," Henry said, already reaching gently for her crutches. He had one hand around her waist already, and she found herself holding her breath when his fingers grazed her ribs as he was sliding the crutches down the ramp, making a loud, clanking noise on the way down. Another Marine reached down to pick them up, and she waited for Elizabeth and Henry both in the warm rain.

She looked at him uneasily before he swooped her up, and she immediately grabbed onto his neck. She swallowed thick, "Your rib, Henry," she reminded quietly.

"It's alright," he said, but his voice sounded strained—she could tell that he wasn't alright even though he said he was. She wondered, too, if he could tell she wasn't alright when she said she was.

Not once did he slip, and she found herself even relaxing in his arms once they got toward the bottom of the ramp. The woman handed Elizabeth her crutches as Henry was letting her down onto the asphalt, and Elizabeth tucked her hair behind her ear before grabbing onto them.

When she looked back at Henry, she caught a glimpse of him rubbing underneath his arm, and she met his eyes. "You hurt yourself," she called out.

He shook his head, "It's just a little sore, that's all."

"Captain McCord," the woman said, "You're not supposed to be—"

"Jordan already get ahold of you?" He interrupted a little briskly, then he sighed and quickly apologized, "I'm sorry, Nunnelly, it's been a long day."

She eyed him for a moment and nodded, and though it was too rainy for her to see her rank, she assumed she must rank under Henry for her to not fight back on it.

Henry placed his hand flat on her back, right in the middle, and he looked at her, "Ready?" He asked, an SUV pulling up on the runway now.

She nodded, though she wasn't sure what she was ready for. Ready to get off her foot? Off these crutches? Ready to go home? Ready to…what? She blinked as the SUV pulled up close to them, and another Marine was holding the back door open for them already by the time the two of them got to the car.

She had gotten soaked on the trip down the ramp and to the car, and when she set her crutches up against the door, she shivered as Henry was getting in on the other side. "Can we get a towel in here?" He asked Nunnelly, and she nodded before going off to somewhere Elizabeth couldn't see, coming back with two towels.

Henry immediately reached over and handed Elizabeth one, "Here," he said, then wrapped the other towel around her shoulders.

"You're wet too," she pointed out, grabbing for the towel around her shoulders to give back to him.

He shook his head, "I'm alright," he said, "I don't want you getting sick."

"That's a myth."

"What?" Henry asked.

She looked over at him and swallowed thick, "It's a myth…that the rain makes you sick."

The way he eyed her made her wonder if he'd heard her still, and then he finally raised a brow. "Well," he said, "Then I'm perfectly fine, in that case, and you're the one shivering."

She eyed him back this time, but then she finally decided she was too tired to argue back. She patted her arms dry and laid the towel over her legs after she'd wiped her face, realizing it stung whenever she slid the roughness of the material over her skin.

Her head flopped back onto the headrest as she stared up at the ceiling, blowing air out forcefully from her mostly-closed lips. She felt his eyes on her again, but she couldn't be bothered to look at him.

Mostly, she didn't want to—this was the end of their friendship. As soon as she got out of the car, he'd be gone. He should've already been gone, at this point. He was supposed to be back in Kuwait, but in all her weakness, she needed assistance.

She turned and looked out the window when she thought about that, peeling the skin from her lips as she pinched it between her teeth.

Her apartment wasn't a far ride from the airport, and when they pulled up, Henry jumped out of the car before she got a chance to say anything. He was at her door within seconds, opening it for her. "You steady on the crutches?"

She nodded, setting them outside the car and attempting to get out. She stumbled a bit, her crutch sliding out from under her as she tried to get her balance awkwardly, and there was that hand again on her back. She tensed up immediately and looked over at him, "You don't need to help, you know," she whispered.

"It's what Jordan sent me to do," he said defiantly.

"Jordan sent you because I couldn't get on the plane without losing my mind," she replied bluntly.

He stared at her for a moment, and then she saw the rain dripping from his head, and she blinked the water from her eyes and hobbled until she faced her apartment and away from Henry. "Thanks for everything," she murmured to him.

"I'm walking you up," he said, "You live on the first floor?"

She shook her head, staring ahead at the staircase already, "Second."

"Oh," Henry said, and she could hear the disappointment—or maybe worry—in his voice. He was suddenly right beside her again, and she was hobbling toward the stairs.

The staircase almost took her out more than once, but she'd made it up without any big mishaps. It took her forever, it felt like, way worse than the slow motion she felt she was in while deplaning. When she made it to her door, she looked back at Henry, "Close your eyes," she instructed.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

He shut his eyes and she turned back, pulling a brick from the wall and grabbing her key out from behind it. She set the brick back and slid her key in the door, "Okay," she mumbled, turning the knob and pushing the door open.

When she opened the door, her eyes immediately caught the mess inside her place. Her breath caught in her throat, almost causing her to choke if she hadn't been so stunned into total silence. She blinked a few times, surveying the open drawers in her TV cabinet and the open cabinets in her kitchen.

Henry scooted closer, "I'm guessing you didn't leave it like this," he murmured.

She shook her head, and then she heard him cocking a gun. It startled her enough that she stumbled sideways a little, looking back at him. He was gently sliding past her with his gun out in front of him, surveying the living room and kitchen, then turning to go down the short hall to her bedroom. She was frozen in place out there, and though she couldn't see him, she could hear him opening the closet door.

She gripped onto her crutches again and leaned into them, her breath becoming erratic as she listened to his footsteps going into her bathroom. She heard the shower curtain be pulled back, and she was holding her breath as he did so. Another cabinet door opening, closing, and then Henry was back in her view.

Her eyes felt wide, like she was going to let them pop out of her head soon if she didn't blink. When she saw his face quickly fall to a look of concern, and then him rushing to her, she realized how scared she must have looked. Then, too, she realized she hadn't been breathing at all—her breath had become erratic for only a few puffs before she had just stopped altogether.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, his hands touching the sides of her arms as he leaned down and looked into her eyes. "Elizabeth…"

"I'm…" she managed, looking at his eyes. "I can't…"

"I know." Henry said, keeping his hands on her arms as he slid out of her door again. He gently took the key from her hand and locked it back, but then unlocked it again, "Go in and get a bag packed, okay? And I'm taking you back to Quantico."

"Quantico?" She murmured, unsure if she was hearing correctly.

"We can put you in a safe house there," he explained.

"The CIA should…" she mumbled, unable to finish her words.

He shook his head, looking at her, "Someone in the CIA either leaked your information or someone in the CIA is involved, Elizabeth," he warned, and his tone startled her into looking at him, "How else would they have found out where you live?"

"You think it was targeted?" She asked. In her right mind, she would've known this was a targeted attack. They were looking for something—anything. She wondered for a moment what they found, but then she realized she didn't care. She'd already been made. It didn't matter what they got, because whatever it was, it was probably to help them find out where she was or what her identity was.

She blinked and just stared at Henry, but then he took her wrist. "I'll be right here," he said.

She looked inside her apartment again as he opened the door, and she felt this sudden rush of overwhelming sadness. This little apartment was her sanctuary. Though it wasn't much, it was where she'd made her home, and they'd even taken that from her. She gasped for air as she made herself step over the threshold, and she felt Henry's hand on her back again, gently urging her to move forward. She looked over at the couch and saw slits in it, then she saw a piece of paper she knew she hadn't left on the counter.

Hobbling over to it, she turned it over and saw the print typed out on the page, "Did you really think we wouldn't find you?"

Henry was looking at it, too, and she could hear him take a deep breath. "Come on," he whispered, his own voice seeming to fail him too. "Let's get you a bag packed so we can get you to a safe house."

When she turned out of the kitchen to go to her bedroom, she got an image of Dalton standing there in her living room, asking her if she wanted to come eat with him and his wife because she'd burnt her dinner the night he gave her this mission. She froze there, and Henry was right beside her again, "Elizabeth…" he mumbled, the urging apparent in his tone.

She blinked and turned toward her bedroom, feeling Henry stay behind. She flipped her light on to see that her bed had been split open, too, the stuffing and springs laying bare in front of her. She swallowed hard and saw her clothes all on the floor, flung from her dresser and closet.

She reached up on the shelf for her duffle back carefully, trying to not lose her balance while standing on one leg, and then she brought it over to her excuse for a bed and laid it out. She didn't even know which clothes she was grabbing from the floor, she was just scooping and stuffing mindlessly. When it was full, she zipped it and Henry came in. "All set?" He asked.

He must have heard the zipper, she realized, and then nodded. He walked over to her and grabbed her back, flopping it over his shoulder and walking out of her room first. She followed him slowly, flipping the light back off without allowing herself another look back. She knew if she did look back that she would cry. She'd already seen that the picture of her and her parents was broken, and she wouldn't have been able to look at it for long without sobbing.

They made their way out of her apartment without her giving it another look, like her bedroom, and he locked the door behind them.

When they got to the car, Henry said they were going to base, and the driver started to argue with him until Henry barked once at the man and they started driving.

Elizabeth watched the side of his face while her hands laid together in her lap. She studied him as he stood his ground, flexed his authority, and then she wondered how someone so sweet and gentle with her could be so commanding when he needed to be. She turned back toward the window again when she thought about him pushing past her so carefully, drawing his gun and searching her home for any threat.

And then she thought about her home as she watched a water droplet trail down the window, pushing little zig-zagged paths through the other droplets. Her eyes closed and she felt her own droplets running down her cheeks before she pulled her hand from her lap and wiped the moisture away.

The car felt eerily quiet—the infirmary was always so loud, and when she was living in London everything seemed so loud, too. When she'd been taken to Kuwait, to that warehouse, everything there was so loud.

Now she could almost swear she heard Henry breathing.

She glanced over at him to find him already looking at her, and she wanted to look away again, but it was too late—he'd seen her. He's watched her like a hawk ever since they got on the helicopter, why did she assume now it would be any different?

She swallowed hard, her throat tight as she looked down at the seat between them. Her hand was trailing along the seam on the inside of her Marine-issued sweatpants, and she wondered if she'd grabbed her favorite pair out of her bedroom. She didn't bring them on the trip to London, knowing she could easily lose her stuff there.

As she picked at the seam, she looked down at the fabric bunching between her fingers, "Well," she said quietly, trying to break up some of the heaviness in the air from all the silence, "At least they left the walls standing."

He didn't respond. When she looked up, she saw him still watching her, but his eyes were focused on what her hands were doing. Her other hand was balled up tightly against her thigh, and she hadn't realized it until she noticed Henry staring. She relaxed her fingers and felt the burning in her palm where her fingernails had been digging in.

"Could've been worse, right?" She threw in.

It was meant to sound light. A "I'm a spy and can handle tough things" statement. Something to say that she wasn't thinking about the broken picture frame or the way they'd completely turned her apartment upside down—and for what? She didn't keep confidential items there—or the note on the counter. And she certainly wasn't thinking about the fact that she wouldn't ever feel safe staying there again, that she'd have to move no matter what because she wouldn't be able to see it as home anymore.

Henry exhaled and she looked up again, swallowing hard as her fingers rested against her thigh now. He didn't argue with her or tell her she was wrong, but he did reach for her wrist and pull her arm gently over the seat. His hand slid down to hers and cupped it perfectly, and she looked down at it and wondered how he could read her mind.

Her hand wrapped around his, and he followed suit, and they sat there in the almost-silence with only their breathing and the car's tires and the occasional sirens wailing in the D.C. early morning hours.

When they got to the base, the guard just simply glanced at Henry's ID before waving them through with no questions asked. The driver was in uniform, too, but she was surprised that they hadn't asked for her ID. Must have had something to do with Henry's rank. He was a Marine captain, so that alone was enough reason to keep scrutiny to a minimum, she supposed. But if anyone knew why they were really here, and who she was, they'd not only be asking questions but also demanding answers.

She clasped her hands together in her lap, feeling suddenly as though if she let go of them she might unravel altogether.

Henry talked to the driver, telling him where to go. Elizabeth felt like they'd been on base for a long time when they finally reached a stopping point, and she peered around the passenger seat to look out the windshield. The house was surrounded by woods, and if she wouldn't have seen the guard at the entrance, she would've wondered where the hell he'd brought her and if he was going to murder her here. It looked abandoned, like no one had been here in years.

She kicked herself at that realization, knowing that if she were in her right mind, the CIA mind, she wouldn't have let herself come without at least asking where she was going. But something about Henry was so intoxicatingly easy to let her just follow him and not ask questions.

"It's not on any official lists," Henry explained, noticing that she was looking around. "It was used for black ops personnel a long time ago, and my mentor always told me to come here if I needed to disappear for some reason."

She looked over at him, "Why would you need to disappear?"

He shrugged, "You never know when the brass might turn on you."

Elizabeth swallowed thick, "You didn't check in."

"No," Henry said, reaching around into the back for her duffle bag.

"You didn't tell anyone I was coming here," she said.

He looked at her, furrowing his brows, "No," he said.

She looked at him for a few moments and tried to calm her breaths, "Henry," she breathed finally, "If the CIA has a leak and you're keeping me here off the books…you know what that means." You're going rogue, she wanted to say.

He swallowed thick and looked down at her bag, his fingers tapping away beside the zipper. He looked like he was lost in thought for a while, and she almost interrupted him to tell her to just take her to Langley, but he looked up at her. "I know exactly what it means," he whispered, "And I also know that I watched them leave two men behind in that warehouse, and I'm not going to let the same outcome happen to you."

She stopped breathing, remembering that two men had died the day that she was extracted. It's not something she forgot, necessarily, but she had pushed it back to the deepest, darkest corners of her mind and tried to make it stay there.

He picked up her duffle back and slung it over his good arm before opening his door, looking over at her, "I'll go in with you, make sure you're settled, and then I'll just be at the temporary living quarters on base. If you need anything, anything, there's a—"

"Henry," she stopped him suddenly, searching his eyes for something to ground her, something to keep her breathing, "I don't want to stay here alone."

He swallowed hard, and she suddenly regretted what she'd said. She didn't even really know him. They were back Stateside now, what if he had a real life here? If he had a girlfriend he just hadn't mentioned? She's sure any girlfriend would be, well, not okay with Henry staying with a woman he'd rescued in an abandoned-looking safehouse with no one knowing where they were.

"I—never mind…I'll be—"

"It's okay," Henry said quietly, his knuckles turning white from gripping onto the strap of her bag. He propelled himself out of the SUV, and she gathered her crutches once the car door shut. He was at her side before she could even get the door open, and they walked together to the house in the drizzles dropping from the trees above.

When she reached for a light switch inside, she realized how stupid it was to even think about lights. She looked at Henry and swallowed thick, "It's going to be sunrise soon I'm guessing," she said, "What time is it?"

She looked down at his watch but she couldn't read the time, "It's 5:12," he said, "The bedroom is just around that corner. You should get a little sleep before we figure out what's next."

She frowned at him, "Where are you going to sleep?" She asked.

He looked over at the couch and nodded toward it, "Right there," he said, "That way I'm by the door."

She looked at the door and then at the couch, and while they were in close proximity to each other, the distance from the bed to the couch was not. So she hobbled over to the couch and plopped down. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"I'm sleeping here," she murmured, then felt childish and silly as she exhaled, closing her eyes. "I can't sleep right now, Henry," she admitted, "Not alone. I've only been able to sleep since all this happened when I was with you." She looked up at him, feeling like she was shaking on the inside—and maybe outside, too—from the audacity she'd just used to get those words out. "If you want me to sleep, it's going to have to be with you. And I'm sure your girlfriend wouldn't want to know you were sleeping in the same bed as me, so I—"

He'd looked flabbergasted when she said girlfriend, "I have a girlfriend?" He asked, "News to me."

She swallowed hard, avoiding his eyes even in the darkness. "You're telling me that a man like you doesn't?"

He shook his head, "Military, you know?" He said before she felt the couch dip. She could see his form moving toward her, but her mind was too spinny to realize that he'd been walking over. "Would you be more comfortable in the bed?"

She glanced at the couch and saw how small it was, "As long as you're not uncomfortable in the bed," she mentioned before seeing him shrug, "Then yes, I would be."

They got back up and hobbled to the bedroom, and he shut the door behind them and locked it. "Here's your bag," he said, walking it to the bed. "The bathroom is right there, I'll go in there while you change. Just let me know when you're finished."

He walked to the bathroom and she stared at the closed door for a moment. The weight of this situation suddenly came crashing down on her like an anvil in a cartoon, and she felt like she was going to crumble. But instead, she dug through her bag and found that she'd brought her favorite tee—her Peter Frampton one—but not her favorite sweatpants. So she kept these on and crawled in the bed, careful of her cast, "I'm good," she yelled out.

He opened the door seconds later, and she glanced over at him as he crawled gingerly into the bed. She could tell he was sleeping on the very outer edge, but she was just glad he was here. She closed her eyes and listened to his breaths, feeling the tears pricking at the back of her lids, and she took one deep breath before Henry's hand found hers.

He laid it on the back of her hand gently, "We'll get through this," he said, "I'm not leaving you until I know you're safe."

She gritted her teeth together, trying to not burst out into tears over how she's not sure she'll ever feel safe again. So she just nodded, hoping he could see or hear at the very least that she acknowledged him.

With the image of her upside-down apartment in her head, she fell asleep at 5:19.