Warnings for drug abuse, addiction, and mild sexual situations.
But when you're wearing on your sleeve,
All the things you regret,
You can only remember what you want to forget
You feel it tugging at your heart,
Like the stars overhead,
'Til you rest your bones on the killing bed...
—Brandi Carlile, "The Things I Regret"
She isn't so good with planes these days. Not since Vincent's plummeted into the Atlantic and took half her heart with him.
In two days, Vincent's home state will hold a memorial service in his honor and all of the staff will fly out to pay their respects. On the day of their departure, Nadine nurses a blinding headache behind the protection of her sunglasses, feeling nauseous with grief. Out on the runway she looks up to see the plane rumbling with life, raring to deliver them to Chicago. Or to their death. Whichever happens first.
Without warning, the pain in her skull plummets into her chest, and the drop is so violent and sharp that she nearly doubles over and vomits right there on the blacktop. She won't make it onto the plane. She can't get on the plane. She's certain that she's dying right here. She can't get on the plane.
She learns later that her panic attack was so severe it bursts a blood vessel in the corner of her eye. Her doctor prescribes her Xanax after that. And the team attends the memorial service without her.
She's resistant, at first, to taking it. But if she wants to keep her job (and she does, she needs it, it's all she has left) then she has little choice. Air travel is a non-negotiable requirement and she has to be able to get her ass back on that plane.
So she takes the Xanax so that she can stop hyperventilating every time she has to fly. She takes it and tells herself she is coping. Sometimes (oftentimes) she takes a few more than she's supposed to and pretends that she is dealing with her grief in normal, healthy ways.
It's inconsequential, anyhow. She is dealing. Her methods are not for others to judge.
/
The memories hit her at any given moment, without warning.
She'll think she's fine, and in the next second a word or stray scent or tableau in front of her will trigger a flashback and the next thing she knows she's in pieces all over again. It isn't just grief; it's profound and aching loss. He'd been the most important person in her life.
She can't live like this.
Nadine becomes highly functional on a daily diet of too many benzos, washed down with tea. They become her crutch; essential to her survival. They take away the teeth, dull the razor-sharp edges of her heartache. Her anxiety is no longer set on a hair-trigger. She is fine. And no one notices that anything is wrong.
/
She's been teasing him all day long and she knows it; the skirt that's just a little too tight and too short to (in good conscience) be called professional; the fuck-me pumps that are a fraction too high; the dark red lips; the blouse that's undone one button past decency.
Out in the conference room, she passes by him just a breath too close, brushing her ass against the front of his pants under the guise of attempting to squeeze past him. A murmured "my apologies, Mister Secretary," purrs from her mouth as she does it. She can hear Vincent's quiet little intake of breath, and it makes her smile to herself.
When she hands him the copy-edited version of the latest Tehran report, she leans over his desk, presenting him with an eyeful right at the level of his face. She puts a little arch in her back, showing herself off to her best advantage. He's almost glaring at her now, and she ignores it, going on with her discussion of the numbers.
She's playing a dangerous game—he'll probably punish her for it later.
She can't wait.
/
Nadine blinks. Daydreaming again.
She leans her head into her palm. Looks down at the little white pill on her desk. She flicks at it with the tip of her nail, sends it skittering across the wood. She shouldn't. She already took one this morning.
Her work phone buzzes to life with an incoming call. She glances over at it and frowns, declining the call with the tap of a finger. She wishes he would quit trying to reach her. She wishes everyone would quit needing her.
Her sigh is listless. She's just so tired.
There's a knock at her door. Nadine calmly turns her phone face-down and flattens her hand over the bare tablet before sliding it into the open drawer. Closes it. Inhale. Exhale. She stiffens her spine.
"Come in," she says. And her voice is strong and clear.
/
She finds that she likes to unwind, these days, with more scotch than she used to. Two glasses, instead of her requisite one. Three, if her day has been long or hard or both. (This is most days.) She is careful not to self-medicate in high doses while drinking. She's in pain; not suicidal. Not reckless. But half a pill on her tongue, sipped down on a smooth mouthful of scotch, creates a bliss so pure and powerful that she couldn't resist it if she tried. It's better than sex. Better than an orgasm. She sinks into a high so sumptuous that she can almost forget about everything that has fallen to pieces around her. She can be deliriously happy.
/
Another call; the third attempt this week. And it's still only – Nadine checks her desk calendar and frowns at the finding—it's only Tuesday. She declines the call, as she has declined all the others, and gets back to work.
/
"Hello, this is Nadine Tolliver."
She realizes a split-second too late her mistake. The person on the other end of the line begins his furious pitch and Nadine's free hand balls up anxiously. It was stupid of her to answer. She hadn't recognized the number, but had assumed that the call was work-related and picked up.
She hadn't recognized the number because it was a burner phone. Stupid of her. Stupid.
"Leave me the hell alone," she hisses vehemently into the phone, and ends the call.
She isn't afraid of him. The problem is, he isn't afraid of her either.
/
Nadine is excellent at her job; that had never been the problem. Her work doesn't suffer from her intermittent struggles with sobriety—it's all the other parts of her life that could use a little help. She's been doing better recently, though—drinking less, medicating less. She can now sleep through the night again without pharmacological help.
But the confirmation of this new Secretary of State sends her right back into a tailspin. Honestly. The president plucked an academic off of a godforsaken horse farm and expects her to lead their country through diplomacy. It's an insult to Vincent's legacy and an affront to Nadine's department.
Nadine finds herself popping extra doses again; just enough to take the edge off her anger, enough to dull the frustration of trying to manage the most stubborn, impossible, and unmanageable woman she could have possibly been given.
"Conrad fucking Dalton," she mutters to herself, after she walks the Secretary through prepared talking points for her luncheon with the Spanish ambassador and then has to watch in silent horror as the woman goes completely off-script at the table. Nadine wonders if it would be possible to scream into her wine glass without anybody noticing her.
Nadine knows that she is a hard woman to win over, but the Secretary slowly manages it, racking up more good outcomes for the department than bad. Nadine cannot deny that Elizabeth McCord is… impressive. When she compares McCord to Vincent Marsh, she can't help but find Marsh wanting. Nadine finds herself working harder; eager to win herself into the other woman's good graces and eager to stay there. Desperate to please. Though this about-face in attitude happens gradually, it still gives Nadine whiplash.
What a mess she is. Her intentions swing to either extreme like the pendulum of a clock—she has to medicate just to keep herself on even keel. Nadine wonders if the Secretary thinks she's crazy.
"Nadine?"
She looks up to see the Secretary leaning into the open doorway to Nadine's office. "Yes ma'am?"
"I need you to get me Andrew Munsey ASAP."
"Andrew Munsey, ma'am?" Nadine echoes dumbly. Under her desk, her hands curl into tight fists.
"There's no way I'm letting him off the hook for Operation Stupid Kids. I'd like you to sit in on our meeting."
"Yes ma'am," she says neutrally.
"Thank you." Elizabeth leaves, presumably for the break room.
Nadine takes two deep breaths, then picks up the phone to dial the Langley office.
/
She's laying in his bed, draped over his bare chest. The Venezuelan sun is just breaking dawn over the ranch, bleeding soft rays of light through the crack in the curtain. Nadine sighs, happy and sore.
She feels Vincent brush his fingers through her hair. "Good morning," he mutters sleepily.
"Good morning," she says. She kisses his chest. "You wore me out last night."
He chuckles, and she can feel the rumble under her cheek. "I think it's the other way around, love."
She grins. She raises up on her elbows so that she can see his face.
"Hey," he says, "I got you something."
"Hmm?"
He reaches one hand out and pulls open the nightstand drawer. He withdraws a black velvet box and hands it to her. "I meant to give it to you last night, but someone was exceptionally eager."
Nadine smiles. She turns to the box and opens the lid. "Oh," she delights. "I love it." It's a simple pendant—a gold Buddha on a delicate, gleaming chain. It's very her.
Vincent lifts her free hand to his mouth and kisses it. "I saw it and thought of you."
"You didn't have to get me anything."
"I wanted to."
Nadine frees it from its velvet case and turns her body in an unspoken request, lifting her hair. Vincent sits up behind her and takes the necklace from her hands, unfastening it. He drapes it over her neck and clasps it in the back. He presses a soft kiss there.
She turns back around and rises up on her knees, the sheet falling away from her body as she moves to straddle Vincent's hips. He slides his hands up her thighs as she gathers her hair in her hands and lifts it up, away from her face and neck like a pin-up girl, showing off her new jewelry. Among other things. "What do you think?" she asks.
"Beautiful," he says. He smiles at her dazzlingly, and it makes her heart flutter with wild anticipation inside her chest. "I am… so in love with you," he says. He sits up, so that they're face to face. "I love you so much."
Her breath catches in her throat. She never gets tired of hearing it. "I love you too," she whispers, and brings her lips to his.
/
The texts and calls to her work phone have stopped. Her personal phone, however, is a different story. She never replies and never picks up, and so her voicemail rapidly fills up with brief and unsettling messages. She can hardly block the number before a new one takes landing in her inbox. Men, she's learned over and over again, hate to be ignored. This man in particular.
She listens to one—just one!—voice message before she can stop herself. Because she has to know.
"We don't like loose ends. Call me."
Nadine flinches. She deletes that message hastily, and all the others that are no doubt just like it. And then she blocks that number, too.
/
She misses Vincent. Some days, she misses him so intensely that she feels like her chest could crack right in half and bleed out all of her yearning onto the carpet. Down her dress, all over her shoes. All of her grief laid bare for everyone to see. She misses the intimacy; misses sharing herself with another person; misses the feeling of knowing someone else so completely.
So maybe she's just confused. Maybe all of this heartache that she carries around with her has made her unbalanced. Maybe she's confusing respect for… other things.
Because she likes Elizabeth McCord. She likes that Elizabeth is a good diplomat, a fair boss, and a generous humanitarian. She likes that Elizabeth has a strong moral center and a drive to do good; and she admires that while Elizabeth is nearly always kind, she is easily made ruthless. Nadine admires all of those things, and it makes her want to do better. It makes her eager to please.
But Nadine's problem is that her admiration for Elizabeth feels distressingly similar to her infatuation with Vincent. She is self-aware and horrified, but her clarity does nothing to change a course that has already been set into motion. It unfolds in front of her like a train wreck that she is powerless to stop.
In Elizabeth's office now, running through the finer points of tomorrow's schedule, Nadine studies her disjointedly, intently, taking in her features as Elizabeth talks through some brief or other. Nadine is still a little… well, not high, but the benzos make her process things differently. Everything comes through in kind of fragments like this.
She licks her lips. Absently, she wonders what it would taste like to kiss Elizabeth McCord.
Elizabeth has stopped talking. She glances up, oblivious to Nadine's thoughts. "I think that should do it for today. Was there something else you needed?"
It's been a long time since she's kissed a woman. Or anyone, for that matter. Her skin tingles at the thought.
"Nadine?"
Nadine blinks. She shakes her head, a quick, jerky movement, and sweeps her free hand down the front of her skirt. "No ma'am," she says crisply. "There's nothing else."
/
She's picking out apples at the grocery store when she sees him. He stops on the other side of the produce stand, right in front of her. He's pushing an empty cart. He looks over at the pyramid of granny smiths as if appraising the selection, but makes no move to pick one up.
Nadine tenses, heart thudding in her ears. "I told you to leave me alone," she mutters so only he can hear.
"You're a very difficult woman to get ahold of."
"Take a hint."
"I would just like to talk—" he begins.
"We have nothing to discuss. Don't follow me again." She pushes her cart right past him, empty-handed. She'll circle back around for the apples later, or maybe she'll just leave without them. "And stop calling me!" she hisses.
/
Nadine has occasionally wondered if the Secretary notices that something is wrong with her. If the Secretary knows that she's addicted to her anxiolytics, that she can't function without them, that she sometimes goes through these terrible benders because she uses them inappropriately.
Nadine isn't certain, but she thinks Elizabeth knows; or at the very least, suspects that something is not right. After all, the woman isn't stupid.
Nadine gets her answer for sure the night that she's huddled in her office long after everyone else has gone home. She keeps the lights off and her head bent forward, fingers pressed hard against her skull. She's battling a splitting migraine and has hardly even changed positions in, what, two hours? She can't go anywhere until it dissipates. She can't possibly drive home in this condition.
The problem is that she's withdrawing, just slightly. She's been out of her Xanax and hasn't had the chance to go refill her prescription. The headaches are a nasty and intractable side effect of that, as is the fact that she feels weak and shaky and horribly nauseated.
This is how the Secretary finds her as she's headed out the door.
Nadine hears the soft whisper of the door swinging open against the carpet. She doesn't care enough to lift her head—whoever it is can look their fill and then leave her the hell alone.
But then she hears the sound of heeled footsteps walking in uninvited, followed by the faint trace of a perfume that Nadine has come to recognize as belonging to the Secretary, and the Secretary alone.
"Nadine?" Elizabeth says softly.
Nadine wills her jaw to unclench enough to grit out a reply. "I'm alright," she replies tightly. "It's… it's just a migraine. I've been waiting for it to pass."
She hears Elizabeth step closer, senses the other woman's presence right next to her. Fleetingly, Nadine wonders whether the Secretary even believes her. Just a migraine. Yeah, right.
Elizabeth lays a hand on her shoulder, and the touch is so unexpected that it makes Nadine jump in her seat. "You're having a hard time," Elizabeth says finally. "But you're better than this."
Oh, she knows.
But her audacity makes Nadine's palms itch, and Nadine has to resist the sudden and insane urge to rear back and smack Elizabeth across the cheek. "You don't know that," she says instead.
"I know that a good person. And a strong one. I know that your heart is broken, but please… don't let this ruin you."
Nadine is silent, and when Elizabeth realizes that she will not receive a response, she gives Nadine's shoulder a little squeeze and then releases her. She slips out of the office quietly, and then all that is left of their surreal interaction is the lingering scent of her perfume in the air.
TBC