A/N: Hello! Just an update on FFN, I will be switching over to Ao3 soon (the glitches in FFN's system are too much). So if you'd like to follow me there, I'm hoping my username will be the same, but it's a few week wait to get an account. I also say this as a heads up in case anyone does want to make an account there...you may want to start now :)

Anyway, that was some housekeeping...

This chapter was fun to write (of course) and I had SO much written that I needed to break it apart. So this is part one of The Refuge, and part two will be Elizabeth's POV.

Hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

Henry | Post-Extraction – 189 Hours

They only stopped for gas, a map, two drinks, and two gas station donuts, and then they were back on the road. Before they arrived at the gas station, their trip was almost serene—the sun was still down below the horizon, not yet tinting the sky with its blueish haze of the early morning dawn—as if they hadn't had three dead bodies in their safe house less than an hour ago.

Their trip was silent up until he turned left off the highway: "I'll go in and grab us something," he'd said, sliding off the front seat carefully, "Anything particular?" he'd asked, turning around and grabbing the wallet Rawlins had given him, but she just shook her head. His "last night wasn't a mistake" speech still hung heavy in the air even though fifty-three miles had already passed between them and the last sentence he told her: "I refuse to let either of us get hurt."

After distributing the storebought goods, he murmured, "I just realized we never ate anything yesterday," as he was pulling back out onto the main highway, glancing over at her before fumbling with his donut. He looked in the rearview, too, to make sure they weren't being followed—nothing had raised a red flag so far, so he wasn't terribly worried. He figured Grayson hadn't found out that Freeman was dead yet, along with the other two guys that Conrad and Rawlins were having to "clean up" back at the cabin.

Once they figured it out—that meant he'll have really pissed off the U.S. Government.

She reached over without saying anything and took it from his hand like an impatient mother watching a toddler fumble around, untying the bag that he'd put it in and wrapping the bag around the base of the donut before handing it back to him. He'd glanced at her a couple times to see what she was doing, why she'd taken his donut from his hand so quickly, and then when he realized, he just smiled and let it happen as he turned his eyes toward the road. "Thanks," he mumbled, taking it back as she hovered it over the console.

She nodded and licked her thumb first, then her index finger, and rubbed her hands together. "I don't think I even thought about food once yesterday," she admitted, unwrapping her own donut now. "But I am hungry today," she said.

He looked down at his donut in the dark, then back up at the road as he chewed. Because we worked up an appetite, he thought, then remembered it all had gotten interrupted. Well, not all…he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that they'd slept together not just once, but three times last night. He was trying to not let himself fall into the same pit Elizabeth had fallen into this morning already, the one that said he was wrong, that said he should've been the Marine above all else.

But how was he to tell her no when she asked for him, for Henry? Maybe he didn't want to be a Marine so badly after all. Maybe just Henry was a lot nicer in this situation.

He dropped a crumb on his pants, and he brushed it into the floor, "I'll have to get it detailed before I bring it back to Conrad," he said, a joking tone in his voice as he tried to lighten both of their moods. As if detailing this car was the top priority for any of them. "He may lose his mind if I bring it back with crumbs."

She snorted as she was chewing, shaking her head and looking over at him as he focused on the road. He wanted to look over, wanted to see if she had a little smidge of chocolate on her lip that he could wipe off with his finger, but he also needed to keep his eyes on the road. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his focus off of her.

The hum of the tires rolling against the road was starting to sound more like a lullaby, and he turned the radio up a little when he finished his donut. He scanned through the stations with one hand on the wheel, finally landing on a station playing "Baby I Love Your Way" by Peter Frampton. He settled on that, and he felt her looking over at the radio, then at him.

"Frampton," she murmured.

His right hand rested on the wheel while he looked over his shoulder at her, nodding, "Yeah?" he said, partially a question. "Do you not like Frampton?"

She stayed still for a few moments, and for a brief time, he thought maybe she was having another panic episode where she seems to be stuck inside her body without any way to get out, stuck inside that Kuwaiti warehouse again. But then she shook her head, "No," she said, "Well, I mean," she blinked a couple times, "Yes, I love Frampton," she corrected and looked over at Henry as he kept his eyes on the road.

He wondered what had caught her so off guard, or why she seemed so stunned, but he didn't push her further. She seemed a little dazed in general from this morning's events, so he put the last bite of donut in his mouth—too much for one whole bite, but not enough to split it into two.

As he chewed, he noticed the sun hadn't quite come up over the horizon yet to their left, but the sky was almost a bright purple—he knew it would be coming up soon. "This is a pretty good song," he finally continued, not wanting the conversation to die away. He had lots to learn about her, "I like a lot of his stuff."

She stayed quiet for a moment, and when he looked over while licking his fingers, she was looking down at her hands in her lap, "I have a cassette tape that I've had since I was a little girl—when that record came out," she said, still staring down as Frampton sang "But don't hesitate / 'Cause your love won't wait." His hands gripped the steering wheel, trying to resist the temptation of reaching over so easily and taking hers in his. Maybe it would calm her, but she looked like she was deep in a memory he didn't want to pull her from. "I always skip the first two songs on the tape, but 'Show Me the Way' is the third. I like that one."

He nodded, "I like it too," he said, looking over quickly and finally giving in, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. At first, her fingers felt tense in his palm, and he swallowed thick and second-guessed himself. Maybe she really does regret last night after all, he thought, grimacing at the idea of losing her already when he'd just gotten her. All of her, at least.

But then she relaxed and let her fingers curl around his, and she laid her head back against the seat and rested her chin over tiredly on her shoulder while she looked out the window. He saw her reflection in the glass, smiled, and looked back at the road again. She's going to be asleep in no time, he thought, rubbing his thumb along the back of her hand.

He looked down again and noticed that her scratches had healed on her hand, and her skin was so smooth. He wondered how she'd kept it like that in all this chaos—lotion? Has she even thought about lotion during this time? Good genes? God, good genes. I wonder what her parents are like, he thought, glancing over again at her reflection and noting that her eyes were already closed as her head bobbed lazily with the bumps of the car.

I wonder what she's thinking about, he thought, blinking a couple times before turning his gaze back to the road. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, over his left shoulder. He glanced in the rearview again just to be extra sure, but there was still no one suspicious—there had barely even been anyone behind them at all on this early morning highway.

What was she like when that song came out? he wondered, listening to the DJ say what song was coming up next. She mentioned a brother. Will? Was that his name? I think. I bet she was a good big sister—is a good big sister. She didn't mention her parents, though—or did she? Maybe she mentioned it in the infirmary. She said she lived on a horse farm.

He took a deep breath and shifted his left hand on the wheel, getting more comfortable as he glanced over and noticed her mouth hanging open just slightly.

Good, he thought, smiling, I hope she can get some good sleep.

He pulled his lips to the side and bunched them together, thinking, she's safe here.

He swallowed thick and blinked as the sun blinded him for a moment with a ray coming through the trees. Out of nowhere, his mind flickered to remembering the scar on her back, the way she shuddered when he'd accidentally touched it, even though there was no longer a welt there. He knew it still must've stung for her to show any kind of pain like she had.

Either that, or she'd been so tired that she'd let her guard down just enough.

She hadn't hardly shown just how much pain she was in, he realized. She had to be in a lot of it—she'd had a collapsed lung, she had ankle reconstruction, she was beaten and clearly whipped and was starved. Yet she never complained, and she was determined to get around on her own without his help. But he couldn't bear to watch her try to struggle on those crutches more than she already had to—he wanted to be at her side for everything, every time she looked like she was about to waver.

He'd seen the subtle winces; he'd felt the way she had tensed up. He obviously saw the panic attacks, the way she was trapped in her head and couldn't find a way out until he spoke calmly to her. He hated that she had to carry that, and his hand tightened around hers just a little, afraid to wake her up. He hated that he couldn't take it all away for her, that they had to be on the run right now. That he couldn't just erase the scars, physical and otherwise, that Hariri and his men—and whoever else—inflicted on her.

His thumb brushed the back of her hand absentmindedly, as though he was trying to soothe her, like the small gesture could somehow heal the pieces of herself that she'd so obviously lost but couldn't bring herself to admit. He remembers earlier that morning in the kitchen, though, when she sat in the floor and feared him. He made him bristle in his seat, and he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"Give her some space, kid," Rawlins' voice played back in his memory as he swallowed hard.

He wondered if she'd always been so stubbornly resilient, or if it was something she'd developed over time.

Was she a stubborn three-year-old when her brother was born? Or was she stubborn because she had to be, sticking up for herself or something? And for God's sake, what made her choose to be a CIA spy of all things? He shook his head and let out a quiet sigh. Had all that stubbornness and bottling up come with the job? Having to push through mentally and physically? Where the hell did she get all her endurance from?

His cheeks immediately flashed hot when he thought about the word endurance. She'd told him last night—when she started kissing him again and after telling him to never, please never, tell her they need to stop—that they could go slow because they'd already expended so much energy the first two times. He looked over at her to find her still sound asleep, and he worried for her head bobbing side to side, but she seemed to be content.

He turned the radio up a little more, knowing it was going to be a long few hours to Cape Charles with her asleep in the passenger's seat.

The heat in his cheeks reminded him of his thoughts again, though, of endurance. His mind quickly wandered off to last night and thought of how he'd almost blacked out before he ever even got undressed. The gun had fallen from his waistband, and he hadn't even realized—that's how overtaken he had been with the idea of her.

He should've slowed down the first time, but neither of them seemed to have a speed other than fast. Her whimpering and moaning, the way she would tangle her fingers in his hair and then release them with a simultaneous moan, then grab again—it had all turned him on so much that he simply could not turn it down. She'd told him he didn't need to go slow, and he really took that to heart.

Now, he wished he would've made it last longer, their first time, but the second time was when he slowed down and cherished her.

A ravishment. And then a cherishment. All within an hour.

He felt a chill go up his spine and he straightened his posture in the 4Runner, blowing a breath out and blinking hard while his mind drifted to that second time. He'd crawled between her legs and mapped the inside of her thighs with his lips, measuring every inch and memorizing every place that made her twitch. He held her hips in his hands as he drew her body into his face, making her writhe with his tongue and his fingers, too.

His fingers gripped around the steering wheel at the memory of where they were last night.

He could've easily ravished her a second time, too. Very easily. But something told him to slow down, and he realized at some point that this wasn't an awkward first time like he'd had in the past—this was something totally different. It was like he'd been there before, knowing the buttons to push and the places to kiss to make her back arch.

And then she'd told him how desperately she wanted him again, so he gave himself to her with no second thought. But he was immediately overtaken with the way her eyes looked in that darkness, the way he could just barely see them sparkle as she watched him when their bodies linked together once more. He had chills then, and he got chills again while driving.

After that, he'd helped her get up and go to the bathroom, waiting for her outside the door so that she wouldn't try to stumble her way back to the bed with her cast on. They'd crawled back in the bed and snuggled up with their legs tangled together, tucking the blankets around their two bodies that were close enough to be one.

They'd laid there in silence like that, just watching each other—somehow it didn't even feel creepy—and she finally asked him what he was thinking about. His immediate, honest answer was "you." He couldn't resist kissing her lips again—he wanted to feel her touch on him once more. But then he pulled away and said he should stop—that they wouldn't have enough energy to keep going like that.

He blew air hard through his lips this time and looked out the window, rubbing his eyes and trying to think of something else because he could already feel a throbbing in his pants. As if he couldn't think of anything better, his mind went straight to Freeman.

The shock of the morning had kept him from remembering that he watched the bullet go through Freeman's head—he'd ducked out of the way just in time to be out of the bullet's line. He swallowed thick and thought about how that could've been him dead on the floor this morning, and suddenly he felt a pressure in his stomach. He cracked the window just a little, trying to not wake her, and he took deep breaths to keep the nausea at bay.

He saw the signs for Cape Charles, taking the exits and making the turns, and he only hoped he was going the right way. Trying to navigate the map and drive was beginning to get too difficult, so he made the painful decision to wake her up.

"Hey…" he whispered at first, wincing when he realized how quiet he'd been. That's not even going to get to her ears, let alone wake her up. He glanced over and swallowed thick, "Elizabeth? Hey…we're almost…" he looked over and saw she still wasn't awake.

Finally, he moved his hand from her leg—where it had been resting whenever he wasn't having to use the map—and he gently brushed the inside of her elbow. When she jumped, he hated himself for having startled her awake, but she was so groggy and cute that he almost forgot about it.

"Hey…" he said again, glancing over as much as he could and smiling, "We're almost there. Can you help me with the map?"

"I slept the whole way?" she asked, grabbing sloppily for the map and finally laying her hand on it, rubbing her eyes with her other hand.

"You did," he said, "You were sleeping really good, too."

She looked over at him as she unfolded the map, furrowing her brows. He noticed that she still looked like she was asleep even though her eyes were open. She had a line on her chin where it had been resting on the seatbelt, too. "Was that code for 'you snored?'"

He snorted and bit his lip, keeping his eyes pointed on the road. He just shrugged, but she wasn't going to let him get away with that.

"Henry," she warned.

He shrugged again more innocently, "Maybe a little," he said to the windshield.

She groaned and moved her gaze down to the map, rubbing her neck with her right hand as she tried to make sense of it all. "Conrad's place is off this road here," she murmured, and he was just hoping she was actually awake enough to be giving directions. They could end up in the Chesapeake Bay, as hard as she had been sleeping.

The thought crossed his mind only briefly: how did she know where Conrad's place was to begin with?

She traced her finger along the map and then she looked up, "Okay, you're going to turn right at the next road."

By the time they got to Conrad's, it was already noon, and Henry's stomach had gone through such a rollercoaster—donut, a little horniness thinking about their night last night, then the nausea from witnessing a murder that close with a bullet meant for his own head—that he wasn't sure how he could possibly be hungry. But as they were pulling up into the driveway, his stomach rumbled.

"I hope there's food inside," he said.

"Me too," she admitted, and he felt a little surprise. She's barely been hungry at all. He pushed the garage door opener and watched as the door rose.

"Guess we're at the right place," he said.

She nodded, "It's a nice place," she added, looking around. The house wasn't huge, but it was definitely not small. It really was right on the Bay, too—it butted up right to the water, and Henry could see the reflection shining off when he'd pulled in.

"Have you been here before?" he asked, trying to not make himself sound too suspicious or accusatory. He was curious, after all, about the relationship Elizabeth seemed to share with Conrad.

She looked over and frowned, the garage light shining on the side of her face. The way she was looking at him made him realize he'd mis-stepped. He was about to open his mouth again to tell her to forget that question when she closed hers, then opened it once more, "Do you think I slept with Conrad, too?" she asked finally, the twinge of hurt in her voice piercing through his skin like thousands of tiny needles.

He frowned, "I…" he started, then blinked a couple times. Did he think she'd slept with Conrad? He hadn't considered it too much, though he did definitely realize there was something more between the two of them than just a handler/asset relationship. He let his hands off the steering wheel and he turned to her, "I think you view him as a friend," he said, "And I think he sees you the same way. So no…" he finally realized, shrugging, "I don't think you did. But if you did, then that's—"

"I didn't," she said, her voice becoming somehow both more and less defensive at the same time. She picked at her nails as she looked down, glancing over at her cast then back at the inside door now. "It's just—that's an overplayed rumor at Langley, that I've slept with Conrad and it's why I get special treatment."

"It's not," Henry clarified, his brow raising as if he were adding a question mark at the end of that sentence.

She shook her head, "It's definitely not," she replied, looking down at her lap.

"Why is it, then?" he asked, feeling the sweat start to bead up his hairline already before he ever even finished the question.

She studied him carefully, probably wondering if he was being sarcastic. But he really hadn't meant it in any other way than how it sounded. He didn't know their history, but there was clearly a history that they shared.

Finally, she shrugged and relaxed a little more, "I'm good at my job," she admitted, and he felt like his heart swelled and pushed against the confines of his chest.

That's sexy, he thought as he squirmed in his seat, she owns it.

"And Conrad recruited me out of college, in my junior year even, so he clearly saw something in me as a spy. I interned with the CIA the summer between my junior and senior year, and then I joined officially the summer after I graduated. So I've known Conrad for three years now, which sometimes seems like forever and sometimes like not at all." She shrugged again and looked up at him, "But I do appreciate him as a friend, and I appreciate him even more now that he's helping us hide."

He nodded, agreeing silently with that. And for helping hide the bodies, he thought to himself, but didn't see any reason to sour her mood more than he had to. "He has a wife anyway, doesn't he?"

"Lydia," she said, nodding, "And she's the sweetest—I'd never do anything to even come close to sabotaging their marriage. I know the rumors go around Langley are mostly harmless, but I feel like it makes everyone view me as some kind of…" her voice trailed off as she looked down again, but then she laughed and shook her head, "Besides, the thought of even kissing Conrad is a little like the thought of kissing my brother."

Henry snorted and raised a brow, "Will, right?" he asked, and she nodded. "Yeah, I can see that."

She smiled a little and re-situated herself so that she could reach the door handle, and that was his cue to get out and help her before she stubbornly got out on her own. The garage door came down behind the car and he took a deep breath as she was getting out, and they walked up to the inside door together.

"I have been here before," she answered his earlier question as he turned the doorknob, looking back at her resting on her crutches, "Lydia and Conrad got married on the dock out back. They had friends over the weekend of and we all stayed here," she said. "So it's nice…you know," she shrugged, and he furrowed his brows, not quite tracking. "To be in a familiar place."

He nodded at that, realizing that on top of everything else, she missed her home. Of course she would.

As they walked inside, she went to the light switch, and he thought to himself: Not only did she have to endure all the physical, mental pain, but she also had to endure seeing her apartment ruined. She can't even go back to that place she called home.

It made him ache for a home, too, though he still doesn't necessarily know where home is for him anymore. He wondered how worried his mother was about him—surely the Marines had told her the news that he's "AWOL," though he wasn't ever really AWOL at all. It was just…a blip.

"There's probably food in the fridge," Elizabeth said, "Lydia's birthday was last weekend so they were probably here to celebrate," she said, hobbling over on her crutches to open the refrigerator door. "Hot dogs," she said, then looked back, "Check the pantry for some buns?"

He walked over to where she was pointing to, "Buns," he confirmed, grabbing the bag and setting it on the counter. "You just go sit down, okay?" he said it like a question but it was more of a command in the end, "I'll make us some lunch, you just tell me where everything is."

She snorted and walked over to the table next to the counter, setting her crutches against the chair before sitting in another, "Yes sir," she teased, and he smirked at her.

He looked at her for a moment too long, biting his lip, and he felt a spark try to ignite again. He looked away quickly, taking a deep breath, "Must have been nice to sleep the whole way, huh?" he teased back, opening the package of hot dogs after she directed him to where the pots were.

"You could've woken me," she reminded, putting her foot up on the chair and rubbing her knee. She looks like she's hurting, he thought, filling the pot with water. Where's the pain medicine? he wondered, hoping that he'd grabbed it in their rush out the door this morning—their rush to not let Conrad see their clothes strewn all over the bedroom.

He set the pot down on the stove and turned the burner on, "You were so tired," he murmured, and she looked up briefly before taking a deep breath and reaching for the phone on the counter.

"I told Conrad I'd call when we got here," she said, dialing what he presumed was Conrad's number.

After their talk about the relationship with Conrad, it made him feel better. Because, unfortunately, he'd had more than a twinge of jealousy toward Conrad more times than he'd like to admit. He saw the way they looked at each other sometimes, heard the way he called her Bess when he spoke more gently to her, and he wondered just how interconnected their pasts were. But now that she confirmed he's more like a brother to her, Henry felt like he could breathe easier.

And he hated that about himself. She's not your wife, he thought, plopping the hot dogs in the boiling water, you don't have a legitimate reason to be jealous.

Yet he still couldn't shake that nagging, green feeling.

He heard her on the phone but he didn't pay much attention. He was lost in his thoughts about Conrad and then about Freeman and the two men, wondering how Rawlins and Conrad had gotten rid of their bodies and also the car they'd arrived in.

"Just let me know when you get the intel ready to send over and I'll check the fax," she said, and then not long after, she was hanging up.

"Any news?" Henry asked, taking the hot dogs out and putting them on the buns.

She shook her head, laying the phone down tiredly and swallowing thick as she stared at the table. "They got rid of the bodies," she said, her voice distant. He accidentally stabbed his knife through his bun, poking a large hole in both the hot dog and the bread. He took a shaky breath and nodded, and she continued, "And he said that Grayson has officially put out a hunt for you, and that the DoD is on the hunt for me."

"Why would they be allowed to be hunting you?" he asked.

She swallowed thick, "They're saying that I went rogue—that I am presumed missing with an AWOL United States Marine, and that my disappearance creates a national security risk."

"And Conrad is at risk by harboring you," Henry realized aloud.

She nodded, exhaling and rubbing her palm along her face.

I wish you could've stayed asleep for much longer, beautiful. He turned away when he realized he'd called her that in his head, swallowing hard. You're falling way too hard, Henry. Slow down. He asked if she wanted ketchup or mustard, and she said mustard only, so he also put mustard only on his out of convenience. He walked their plates over to the table, but neither of them seemed hungry suddenly.

"The nature of my mission had to do with the military," she said, "Because Hariri is one of the terrorists on the watch list, and therefore—"

"Do they think that Hariri somehow turned you by beating you and almost killing you?" he sputtered, his anger boiling over as he clenched his fists under the table. But he quickly made himself take a breath, "Sorry," he mumbled, and she just nodded, "But how are they getting away with this? Can't Conrad go to the President?"

Elizabeth nodded, "Yes," she said, "But he's been tied up with the Gulf War debriefings and critical meetings on Iraq—Conrad's been trying to get a meeting with him, but he hasn't gotten through to Skinner—his chief of staff."

Henry rubbed his hand down his face and then his other one, too, holding them there on his eyes for a few moments as he thought. His back hit the chairback roughly, "And there's no way he can pull some strings?"

Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic look, shaking her head and sighing. "Conrad's doing all he can," she said, "He doesn't want to make it look suspicious, either."

Henry swallowed hard and looked down at his hot dogs on the plate. The air between them had already become so thick in this nice house, and he just wanted this to be over already. He'd known the situation wasn't simple to begin with, but now it felt like everything was spiraling uncontrollably with the DoD involved in both of their lives. Clearly, they were willing to kill him to get what they wanted—whatever it was they wanted anyway.

"Henry…" she said, pulling him out of his stupor. He looked up at her and realized she was almost in tears, and he immediately became worried. His hand came up to the top of the table, but he didn't reach for hers yet—he wanted to give her a second. She shut her eyes and he watched as her body shuddered, "If the DoD wants us dead, then they're going to—"

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head and reaching for her hand at the same time, "No. They're not going to find us, they're not going to hurt you." He took her hand in both of his now, rubbing the back of it gently with his fingers, "We'll get this figured out, Elizabeth, you trust Conrad and Isabelle?"

She nodded, but it was a pathetic one.

He nodded, too, "Then let them do their jobs, and we'll do ours. Which, right now, our job is to just sit here and be safe in this house far, far away from anything they'd ever expect us to be in, okay? They see Conrad cooperating so—"

"But what if they find out he's involved, too?" she asked, her voice cracking, "Then I not only lose my own life, but I have to see my friend's lost, and potentially Lydia's, and you…" she took a deep breath through her nose, "God, Henry, I was so scared when they shot through that door."

The rush of emotion hit her all at once, it seemed, and he clasped her hand tightly in his. "I know," he whispered, me too, he wanted to add, but didn't feel like he needed to.

She shook her head fiercely, "No, you don't know." She looked at him and swallowed thick, "I thought…all I could think about was Rawlins saying we didn't have much time, that we should've admitted how we felt for each other because we were being hunted." She sniffled and looked down, her lips rubbing together nervously before she let out a little squeak that she'd clearly been trying to hold in, "And I thought they shot you, Henry."

(to be continued)