A/N: Brace yourselves, this is abstract and probably incoherent. :)

There's an article in the New Yorker called "A Couple in Chicago," where Barack Obama talks about Michelle and their relationship (in the '90s). His quote is so perfect, not only for them, but also for Elizabeth and Henry. This story sort of evolved from that.

It's kind of my own love letter to them.

Reviews make me happy inside.

"It's that tension between familiarity and mystery that makes for something strong, because, even as you build a life of trust and comfort and mutual support, you retain some sense of surprise or wonder about the other person." — Barack Obama

…

Looking back over the past few decades, their relationship was meant to be. It had to have been inevitable. They fit together perfectly, like two halves of a whole, and they'd moulded into extensions of one another.

To an outsider, Elizabeth and Henry had an aspirational marriage, bordering on perfect. They stood by each other no matter what, held the other one up, and supported one another in the bad times and the good. Both were powerful, strong forces in their own right, but never, ever did they try to overshadow the other.

Elizabeth was that special type of person who transfixed whomever she was talking to, leaving them mesmerized by her wit, her intelligence, and her compassion. She attracted gazes from everyone in the room, and her presence was immediately felt. At the same time, she was gracious and happy to give others the spotlight, to help shed light on the issues they cared about so deeply, to let them tell their stories. Always curious, always wanting to gain new understanding and expand her own horizons, she was constantly learning and absorbing knowledge.

When it came to her work, Elizabeth McCord was one of the most dedicated people one could ever come across. She was, as Conrad had aptly put it, not political in the least. She saw no box at all, coming up with solutions to problems that others could never even think of, or were too reserved to ever try. It was precisely that skill that carried her so far in her job, the genuine want to better people's lives, to move toward peace, to act as a nation accepting of others, an inclusive and tolerant force in the world.

Henry, by nature, was the more contemplative of the two. He buried himself in books and manuscripts, and was perfectly comfortable exploring the most complex ethical dilemmas, retreating into his own thoughts and questioning everything he thought he ever knew. He cared just as deeply as Elizabeth about those around him; he let his own personal responsibility and the ensuing guilt if anything went wrong drive him — for the better or for the worse.

It made Henry a force of compassion and deeply competent; he was that rare person that could explain the most complicated existential questions with grace and ease. He was perfectly suited to be a professor, to shape the minds of tomorrow's leaders, to guide them on a path toward moral and ethical thinking. His unfailing moral compass was also what led him as a handler; with Dmitri in Russia, and as an operative with the NSA before that. It threw him deep into the missions, made the whole "personal attachment thing" inevitable, but it gave him a drive to make the world better, to help in the little ways he could. It fuelled his passion, and made him a better person.

It seemed to the outsider that Henry's career was in some way less glamorous (granted, compared to dinners with foreign leaders, it was), and consequently, less important. To the McCords, however, that could not be further from the truth. They were in a relationship of equals, and that meant their careers would not jeopardize the connection they shared, the trust they had built over a lifetime of being together. There would be hiccups, bumps in the road, but they were still united, by a commitment they made at an altar all those years ago — one they would not dare break, only work to strengthen every day.

When they entered a room together, all eyes were on them. They radiated strength and love, they gravitated toward one another, were always acutely aware of the other's presence in a room. Their hands almost always linked together, their fingers entwined or their palms resting on each others' backs, they blended into each other, connected physically and emotionally, working as one.

To the outsider, the McCords were practically perfect in every way.

…

To the children, their parents' marriage was solid. It was a given that had become a constant in their lives. Their parents were a team, a unit. There was no use trying to play one and then another, because they always worked together, and were never unfair. Their parents were probably the most rational, levelheaded people on the planet, and it was quietly infuriating because it made arguing futile.

At the same time, it served as a great comfort to the children, knowing that no matter what happened, no matter how many crazy situations their family got themselves into, Team McCord and their little house would stand. They could seek refuge in their parents relationship, in their commitment; to their children and to each other.

The McCord kids had learnt to relish in those moments, when they were all together, laughing, poking fun at one another, joking, just being the crazy family that they were. It was so easy to get swept up in the press, all the news that criticized their mother, their father, them, that the time they spent together, where they were finally normal again (as normal as you could get with an armed detail parked outside at all hours) meant so much more. It was their calm in the eye of the storm.

…

Henry and Elizabeth were sitting opposite one another on the couch, leaning back on the armrests, their legs tangled together in the middle. Henry had his laptop open; he was working through some emails from his publisher, and Elizabeth was engrossed in a book, grateful to have time to read for once in what seemed like ages.

Except they weren't.

In reality, both Henry and Elizabeth were using their reading as a cover whilst they quietly observed the other, letting their minds wander as their eyes roamed up and down, appreciative and grateful.

…

Henry loved Elizabeth more than he could put into words. Usually a man of great thoughts and much eloquence, he seemed to go mute when he tried to vocalize his love of this woman, this person with whom he had chosen to share everything. It choked him up just thinking about her, about how perfectly they complemented one another, how much he needed her as his anchor, as his rock. He'd grown to defining himself with her in the equation, of seeing the two of them as a team, as an unbreakable bond that would be there for the rest of their lives, just like they had promised in their vows.

Henry was constantly in awe of his wife, of the grace with which she carried herself, the strength she had when dealing with leaders foreign and domestic. She was always fair, but proved her point and didn't let herself be manipulated. Not led by any agenda, she was free to work toward making the world a better place for everyone in it, to advocate for justice and not be afraid to admit her own mistakes. It was her humility and compassion that convinced Henry she was meant to be in the role she'd taken on; DC politics needed her even keel, he'd decided, her openness and transparency would do the whole operation some good.

Outside of work, Elizabeth's steely exterior was allowed to waver from time to time. When she was home, with Henry and her children, she could truly be herself. She could be boisterous, she could joke, she could laugh and she could cry, she could just be, and no one would judge her or hold her to any standard. He loved that about her, and knew just how hard it had been for her to show her vulnerable side at the beginning, when opening up had still been hindered by the lingering memory of her parents and the tight lock she had on her own feelings.

Even now, he still had to coax her sometimes, reminding her it was okay to open up, that she was safe with him, cherished and loved, and that he'd never let anything bad happen to her, ever.

His mind wandered then, looking back over the past few months, over the lies and the secrecy that had followed them both — from their jobs into the house. It was something they'd promised each other ages ago, that they wouldn't let their jobs interfere with their lives.

"I'd quit this job in a heartbeat if it threatened what we have," she'd said with such seriousness and conviction. He'd reassured her then that it wasn't possible, that they were solid no matter what. Now he had been the one to threaten their relationship, and the guilt hung around his neck like a leaden weight. He still couldn't believe he'd let his anger and frustration out on her, on the one person he'd sworn he'd never ever hurt.

Rationally, he understood why it'd happened the way it did. But emotionally, he hadn't been able to cope. She'd taken it in stride, held them both up for so long, until they'd reached a breaking point and he'd told her she reminded him of his failure. She crumbled then and he'd never felt such shame and guilt, because it was true, in some ways, but it was so hurtful regardless. Even if she reminded him of his failure, it was only a small part of what he saw when he looked at her — he sill saw all that he loved about her, what they'd built together, their family, their bond.

But Elizabeth, unwavering, had forgiven him even for this. She was incredible, he decided, putting all her love and trust on the line for him. He still hadn't figured out what he'd ever done to deserve a woman as wonderful as she was. She was his better half, in every sense of the word.

…

Elizabeth's mind had drifted to the same few months in their lives, the insecurity flooding back again. That and the reminder that Henry had seen his worst in her, that she'd failed him on some level she couldn't understand (apart from he painfully obvious reason — Dmitri). It reminded her just how much she'd come to rely on the constant that their relationship was in her life, just how much her world could be rocked if it came off balance. It wasn't as if she was needy when it came to Henry, it was more like she'd forgotten how to explain herself if he wasn't a part of the definition.

He was her anchor, her rock, the person she could go to and spill out all her feelings to. She didn't have to hide when they were together, and besides, it was no use for her to even try. He could read her like a book, as she could read him too. It made pretending futile, but it also intensified their bond, it reminded them just how connected they really were. They were truly two halves to a whole.

The depth of their connection had terrified her at first, but now, she was so grateful for it. It felt so natural, and she and Henry seemed to balance one another out perfectly. His contemplative nature calmed her racing mind, and his quotes helped her rationalize even the toughest of situations. She could in turn spar with him in fiery, good-natured debates, but also reassure him when the inner daemons came out again and he lost himself in his beautiful mind. She was always the one to pull him back to earth.

Henry had always been a man of a thousand words, and she a woman of ten. It was why Elizabeth had decided that loving Henry was just a physical law of the universe, something undeniable and unexplainable, an empirical truth that just was.

…

She was content with that thought, and smiled as she let her eyes roam further. He was doing the same, lost in his own thoughts, so neither noticed the other staring, thinking, memorizing. It was only when their eyes happened to meet that it dawned on them, and they both broke out into wide smiles.

Henry set his laptop down on the coffee table and opened his arms, beckoning Elizabeth into his embrace. She put her book aside and shifted, settling into his chest with a sigh of appreciation. He kissed the crown of her head and ran his hands up and down her back as she fingered with his collar and looked up with adoring eyes, mirroring his expression as he gazed down at her.

"Hey," he whispered. It was the first thing he'd said to her in hours.

"Hi."

"You were staring."

"So were you." He chuckled at her comment, and the vibrations sent tingles through her body.

"I love you, Elizabeth," he whispered — so full of conviction, with such intensity that every cell of her being was awash with the feeling.

"I love you too, Henry."

Their eyes conveyed so much more than words ever could, and they stared at each other again, conscious of it this time, basking in the miracle that was the relationship they'd created. The sometimes effortless, never perfect, always evolving and growing and exploring pact they had forged between one another, that held them together, that made them one.

A/N: Fin. There's a tiny Newsroom reference in this, can you spot it? (hint: think back to the proposal)