Hello! I was in need of angry-feminist-hopeful fic, so this happened. It is a bit ridiculous, partly because I wrote the second half first and then jammed the first half on top, and it's probably a bit ill-thought through, but writing it was quite therapeutic. Also reality is pretty ridiculous so I figure fic can be too! Thanks to teammccord for helping me brainstorm title ideas :) Hope you enjoy... x

Ever the Fight

September 2016

She's just finishing up a phone call with a domineering boor of an ambassador when Alison appears in the doorway of her office at the State Department, looking like she's about to either cry or combust with apoplectic rage.

It isn't entirely clear which, but the unexpected arrival of her daughter gives Elizabeth the perfect excuse to cut short her phone call because something urgent has come up, barely even bothering with a goodbye before she drops the phone back into the cradle and stands from her seat. "Hey, Noodle. Did we agree to meet?" She's pretty sure they haven't but it's possible she has forgotten something.

"No." Alison is still hovering in the doorway, cross and upset and unsure. "Is it OK if I –"

"Come in, come in." Elizabeth steps around her desk and ushers her middle child inside her office, poking her head out briefly to catch Blake's attention and gesturing to him that there should be no interruptions. Alison's appearance in her office is unexpected enough and rare enough that Elizabeth knows without asking that it's serious. She shuts the door and steers Alison over to the couch. "What's the matter? Did something happen?"

Alison sits down heavily but stands again a moment later, pacing the floor in front of the couch while Elizabeth sits back against the cushions and watches her, letting her walk off the stress. It's rare for Alison to get so worked up over something, and even rarer for her to seek out Elizabeth over Henry, and it has Elizabeth's concern and protective instincts sparking and instantly on edge.

It takes almost a minute for Alison to finally stop pacing; she jolts to a stop and turns to face her mother and blurts out, as if in retaliation to something: "I'm not stupid."

Elizabeth reflexively holds her hands up in a placating gesture: that was unexpected. "Woah. Hey. Of course you're not stupid. When did I ever say you're stupid?"

Alison deflates a little. "No, not you. It… I didn't mean you."

"OK." There's more that she wants to say, more questions she wants to ask, but she knows from experience that prodding her daughter when she's stressed won't produce any answers, only an argument. So she forces herself to sit quietly and wait for Alison to get there herself.

It takes a minute more, but then Alison takes a deep breath and sits herself down next to Elizabeth, the anger and upset dissipating enough to leave behind a general air of quiet distress. She seems at least calmer and more collected. "The new editor of the school paper is such a jerk."

She says it with real contempt, and Elizabeth wonders exactly what has gone on to make her usually kind daughter react like that.

"He wants to run more opinion pieces and hard news journalism, as he calls it, which is fine. I kinda want that, too. But he wants to make space for it by cutting back on lifestyle stories and interest pieces."

Oh. Now she gets it. Alison's fashion and beauty column. It's a subject on which she needs to tread delicately. "Have you spoken to him about it?"

Alison looks cross again, her face flushing red as she stares at the coffee table like it has personally offended her. "He said no one wants to read trashy columns on vacuous topics that are only of interest to airheads and idiots. At-home facials are not hard-hitting journalism, he said, like he thinks the school paper is the Washington Post or the Economist or something."

There's a pause then and Elizabeth is just debating what she can say to help her daughter when Alison blurts out the root cause of the problem.

"He didn't outright say it, but he means no one wants to read about things that girls are interested in. And by no one he means boys don't want to read it. I find it funny that the guys who cover the football games haven't been asked to change their stories or file fewer columns." She turns to Elizabeth and there's a desperation in her eyes that Elizabeth doesn't think she's seen before; Alison is obviously angry but also genuinely distressed by the injustice. "Why do some guys think that only their interests are valid? Why do people think that things like fashion and make-up are less valid topics than kicking a ball on a field? Why is that acceptable but girl topics aren't?"

It takes Elizabeth a moment to realise that Alison isn't just venting about an annoying incident at school. She's actually asking the question. And now Elizabeth gets why her daughter has sought her out over anyone else, because who would understand the conundrum better than a woman who has broken her way in to, and deals with and shapes pretty successfully, the most historic and enduring of boys' clubs? She thinks carefully about how to answer; she needs to get it right. She makes sure to look her daughter right in the eye. "Anything you are interested in is valid," she tells Alison, because she thinks she needs to hear it. "And you're right. Your column is no less valid than any sports coverage, or any other column, for that matter. You have just as much right to be heard as anyone else."

"That doesn't solve my problem," Alison says, her voice quiet and small, and that's not how Elizabeth wants it. That's not how she has raised her daughters.

She sighs and gives Alison a smile. "No." Her previous answer was the mother in her talking, but she suspects that Alison isn't actually looking for advice from her mother in this moment – at least, not just from her mother. Elizabeth thinks that she's also asking her as the Secretary of State. "Men are used to being in positions of power," she tells her. "And that's changing – slowly. We're making progress. But I think there's still an expectation among some men that that's how things should be. That they're right, and they're entitled, and anyone who challenges them should be crushed, especially if that challenger is a woman. It happens in high school, it happens in offices, it happens in politics." She thinks about the phone call she had just before Alison arrived; that was a prime example of an entitled man taking umbrage with dealing with a woman in power.

"How do you get over it?" Alison asks. She looks like she really, desperately wants to know. "How do you fix it?"

It occurs to Elizabeth that Alison sees her as something of an example to follow, and that thought makes her so proud. It also makes her feel inadequate; her daughter seems to think she has got the whole thing sussed out, when in reality she's still feeling her way every day, just like Alison is now. The only difference is that with experience, Elizabeth has learned not to care so much about other people's opinions of her, and has learned some tricks to help her. By doing her research, by being the best, by never giving up. Showing up is often half the battle. "You don't back down from a worthwhile fight," she answers.

It's undoubtedly not the easy solution Alison was probably hoping for, but it's the best she's got and has the benefit of being the truth.

"I wish I'd stood for editor of the paper," Alison admits quietly.

It's the first Elizabeth has heard of it, but something about the way Ali says it suggests the idea isn't a new one. "Why didn't you?" she asks carefully.

Her daughter looks a little embarrassed as she answers, her eyes cast down to where her hands lie tense in her lap. "Scott, the guy who won… when I said I was thinking of standing, he told me there was no way I'd get it. He said no one would vote for me because he had it sewn up. He said…"

"What?" Elizabeth prompts, leaning towards her daughter. There could be a crisis at the White House right at this moment and there would still be nothing more important than what Alison has to say.

"He said that just because of who I am, I think I'm entitled to it."

Oh. Oh. She thinks her heart might be breaking. If the reason Alison didn't go for editor of the paper is because of her, then -

"And the worst thing is, I believed him. He made me think it was a stupid idea to go for it. That I was only doing it because I felt entitled to win. That if I went for it I'd actually lose. So I didn't do it." Alison is sounding worked up again, the anger coming back and tears pooling in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Elizabeth thinks that she's angry at herself as much as she is the stupid boy on the school paper.

"Now I'm so mad at him for thinking it was his job to lose. Because you're right, Mom, he acts so entitled. But I'm mad at myself, too, because I actually listened to him."

"We've all been there," Elizabeth says gently. "But Ali, it doesn't mean you can't still make a stand now. It's never too late to do something. Not standing for editor doesn't mean you can't speak up when he does something you disagree with. He might have a right to his opinion – wrong as it is – but you also have a right to yours."

Alison looks down and a tear spills down her cheek. "But what if I lose?"

She considers the question carefully before answering. "Sometimes you will lose," she admits, thinking of her own battles with Russell and Conrad and so many other politicians on a daily basis. "But other times you'll win. And sometimes you know from the start you're going to lose, but you make the stand anyway, because you have to. The only thing you'll regret is not trying."

She thinks it's true; the only battles she regrets are the ones she didn't show up for.

"I just wish everything wasn't so much of a fight," Alison says.

She wraps an arm around her daughter and pulls her close. "Me too, baby." She gets so tired sometimes; it's draining, always having to be battle-ready. But – "The wins make it worth it."

Sometimes the wins are big; sometimes they're baby steps. But they all count. Even the losses can help to break new ground.

"So… I should make a stand against Scott. Over the paper." She sounds decided, resolute, if still a little hesitant at the prospect of suiting up for a fight. Of course she is – it's her first one. She hasn't learned yet that, with time, it does get a little easier, even if the fights do get bigger.

Elizabeth thinks that Alison also needs a little reassurance and confirmation that she's doing what's right. "I think you should," she agrees. "It's something you care about, and it's an important issue, and you have the benefit of being on the right side of the argument."

"But I might still lose," Alison says, like she's not quite on board with the concept of picking battles only to lose them.

It's understandable. But it's also unavoidable. "The only thing I think you'd regret is not trying," Elizabeth says, pulling back so she can take Alison's face in her hands, wiping away her tears with her thumb. She looks into her daughter's eyes, willing her to understand the most important lesson she can teach her as both her mother and the Secretary of State. "Win or lose, sometimes it's just about doing what's right."

July 2018

It's the end of a fairly ordinary day in the office and so she's surprised when Russell Jackson turns up at her house later that evening, a tense look on his face that he usually only wears when he's particularly bothered by something. "Can this not wait until the office tomorrow?" Elizabeth asks by way of greeting. She has been looking forward to relaxing with her family and not thinking about work for the rest of the night.

Russell looks at her like she's crazy for being off the clock. "It can't."

For a moment as he stands on her doorstep, Elizabeth runs through all the things she has done recently that might have pissed him off, but then Russell swallows heavily and blinks a little rapidly and it occurs to her that he looks nervous.

"OK then." She invites him inside and pours him a drink without asking, because he looks like he needs it, although when she catches a whiff of his breath as she hands over the glass, she thinks he's probably already had a couple.

Probably more than a couple.

This reminds her of something.

"So the conventions are coming up," Russell says, twisting the glass in his hands and watching the amber liquid swirl up the sides. "The party's starting to talk about candidates."

Right. That would explain the drinking and the aura of stress around him, because it has been several years since Russell has attended a party convention and it has to be killing him not to be involved in the discussions about who should stand for the nomination for the presidency once Conrad's term is over. But it doesn't explain why he's in her house looking nervous.

"Are you going?" Elizabeth asks, even though she knows he isn't. She's deliberately antagonising him to try and encourage him to get to the point.

"I think they'd arrest me on sight if I showed up at the convention centre." He says it jokingly. It falls a little flat, but the fact that he didn't rise immediately to anger at her deliberately goading question suggests he's deliberately handling himself very carefully.

There's an awkward silence for a long minute. It drags on so long that Elizabeth turns back to the drinks table and pours herself a scotch just to have something to do. When Russell speaks again, it catches her off-guard enough to startle her, sending scotch splashing onto her hand.

"But it's a reminder that it's probably about time to start looking at our options." He says it a little too loudly, a little too brashly, like he has rehearsed it.

Elizabeth nods and turns back around to face him, wiping the scotch on her hand off onto her skirt. "Right," she says, although she's not really getting it. Conrad still has the better part of two years left in office and, with nothing else left to run for, they can use every single minute of that time working for the good of the country. As far as she's concerned, it's too early to start looking at her options for after the election.

Russell takes a mouthful of his drink and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks decided. He takes a step towards her. "It's gone better than expected, this independent president thing," he says.

"In fact I'd say it's gone very well," Elizabeth corrects. She's so proud of what Conrad has achieved – of what they've all achieved.

Another mouthful of scotch. "It has. Even though it was a crazy idea."

Elizabeth smiles. "Well, that's true."

"But I'm thinking… maybe we should do it again."

That statement from Russell Jackson is so out of character and unexpected that it leaves her with her mouth hanging open as she tries to come up with something to say. "You wanna run another independent?" she eventually gets out.

"God help me but I do."

Elizabeth thinks it through a little as she looks at Russell. There's a slightly wild look about him that suggests he's either brilliant or unhinged, and she's not quite sure which one to put her money on. She's leaning towards the latter. "Russell… I know you miss being in the party. And running an independent worked once. But to run and win again? The odds are –"

"Terrible, yes," he says. He puts his glass down on the coffee table and takes another step towards her. "Bess. This isn't about me missing the party." He looks at her beseechingly like he's desperate for her to figure it out.

She can't quite make her brain catch up with whatever bizarre thought process has led Russell Jackson to end up nervous in her house. "OK. But Russell, I know asking Conrad to run as an independent was my idea, but for it to work again with someone else… there's almost no way."

"Is that really what you believe?" Russell snaps and he sounds like he's genuinely angry with her for having doubts.

There's the Russell Jackson she knows and tolerates. She thinks about it. "I guess it would depend on the candidate."

"Yes, it would." He looks pleased with her, but also like he's still waiting for her to grasp something.

A weird thought starts nagging at her, one that has her stomach flipping. She puts down her glass on the table with a clatter. "Russell –"

He doesn't let her get any further. "Sometimes it's about doing what's right, you know?"

She's reminded of a conversation she had with Alison a couple of years ago, when she told her daughter that the most important thing is always to do what's right, and, win or lose, to always show up for a worthwhile fight. She nods slowly. "I do know."

Russell closes the rest of the gap between them and grasps her shoulders in his hands, looking at her earnestly. It's the most physical contact she's ever had with Russell Jackson and the most serious she's ever seen him. "Conrad's still got eighteen months in office. But the campaign to succeed him is about to start. We have to think about cementing his legacy, sure, but it's more than that. It's time to start thinking about what comes after him, and looking at the candidates on both sides, I'm not feeling that confident about our prospects if it's left to them. So it's time to think about what you want to do. It's time to think about what comes next, Bess."

He lets her go then and gives her a tight, grim smile. "I must be losing my mind," he mutters as he turns away and heads to the front door, pulling it open and stopping just before he steps through.

Elizabeth is still frozen to the spot, her mind finally fully catching up with exactly why Russell is in her house and why he very definitely couldn't have come to speak to her about it in her office. Exactly what it is that he's implicitly asking of her. "Russell?" she prompts when she sees him hesitating at the door.

"Sometimes it's about doing what's right," he says for the second time, fixing her with a look that pierces into her.

"Yeah," she agrees. She nods, silently promising that she'll think about it. Oh God, she's going to think about it.

Russell takes a deep breath and looks, strangely, like something of a weight has been lifted. "You'll find me when..?" He leaves the question unfinished.

"I'll find you when," she promises. When she's thought about it. When she's decided whether to show up for the fight.

He closes the door behind him and disappears into the night.

Elizabeth stands in the living room, looking down at her half-drunk glass of scotch. There's a noise to her left and she looks up to see Alison standing there in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the door jamb like she has been there for a while. Elizabeth panics for a moment when she wonders how much of the conversation her daughter has heard and what it has made her think, but then Ali steps forward with an expression on her face like she's suiting up to fight a battle at her side. She smiles at her and says, "So, what are you going to do?"

And it's too early to answer, too soon to put voice to anything when she has only had a minute to even consider the question and can't consider it fully until she has spoken to her husband and the rest of the family, but even though she won't put it into words just yet, as she stands and looks at her daughter – her brilliant, ambitious, wonderful daughter who is going to do such incredible things with her life – Elizabeth knows exactly what she has to do. She owes it to her daughter. Everyone's daughters.

She looks back at Alison and smiles.