Remember today
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It is the fine layer of crispy frost on the windows you'll remember most about that morning. You'll forget the mantra you chanted in your mind since you stepped in your door the night before, her scent still coating your skin as a finely crafted veneer.
As you awake that morning and notice the soft, white flakes on the edges of the old glass you've already made up your mind.
You spend your morning shower convincing yourself it is the only thing to do, but you know the real trial will be her smile.
So the drive to work is longer than ever before, yet you feel you arrived far too soon. And you wonder if there is any way you can avoid being eye to eye with the President and his Chief of Staff, while somewhere you secretly want to see her face, see if your convictions hold.
You wonder if it makes you masochistic, but you settle for deciding it is a form of closure only her piercing green's will give you.
As soon as you walk in the heavy white doors, past the uniform who lazily semi-lifts its head to catch the view of your badge, you realise you won't have to wait for that green-eyed confirmation. The man walking towards you has a posture that is much too stiff to allow him the appearance of many years spent in the service, yet you are sure his back wouldn't be as arched if his chest wasn't reflecting that much light from the many multicoloured badges.
"Commander Harper." He greets you with urgency and a shaky salute so you waste no time letting him trail behind you to the silent walls of the situation room.
You will not remember the frost on the windows after all.
This is where you shine, where your voice carries as if everyone around you is paying extra hard attention just to grasp every nuance of that you are saying. Your movements are fluid as you rush from backlit computer maps to papers and folders, listening to harsh language on a secure telephone line while giving out directions to uniformed men you're not sure you know the names of.
There is a strong current moving the work along and you know you're the one with the large wooden pole that trails the raft away from the rocks. But as the heavy wooden doors are swung open, everything seems to freeze and you think to yourself that you just stuck your pole too far into the thick riverbank mud at her entrance.
You stand, not so much for him as for her. His voice is commanding, and you can detect the hint of fear in it. You quell the urge to smirk, refuse to accept that you just enjoyed noticing fear in the voice of the Commander in Chief. But you do put some extra urgency into explaining the situation to him, telling yourself it has nothing to do with letting her know that you are on top of this while he isn't.
She doesn't react as you pull that pole out of the muck and continue to guide them all down the fierce river. You know they are both imbibing your words, silently racking their brains to grasp the situation. All you attention is upon him as you try to will your mind not to read her eyes, or your thoughts to wonder how she's coping.
But there is no way you'd ever be able to ignore the looks she's giving you. You know she's frightened and her silence is not from shock as much as it is her ways of refusing to let the men in the room know she's scared.
Your chest gives a pleading squeak as to draw your attention to the desires your heart is voicing, but you push it aside, angry with its continuous tries to hurt you. It cries for your attention to fixate on her face, but you can't. You've made up your mind and seeing her like this will break your persuasions.
Opinions are exchanged over the most secret table in the free world and you answer her questions with an air of utter professionalism.
She always takes your side over Hutchinson's or Alexander's because you don't feel their need for excessive military violence and she can't sleep with the thought of sending people to their death.
Before long, the conversation limits itself to the two of you with the Commander in Chief listening intently as he sits between you, the barrier that holds you both within your shields.
The Chairman knows that when she starts agreeing with your every word, his focus must shift from his own beliefs to your strategy, but the Secretary still huffs his disgust as the President nods his approval for your plan.
Decisions made, she asks for a word after the man of the hour leaves a void at the end of the table. You can't deny her the time of the Deputy NSA and you know from the way Hutchinson's voice grows darker into the phone that he is best spared your presence until he gets past the lack of force in your planned retaliation.
"Is this going to work?" Her arms fold around her waist as you close the door between the two of you and the busy military. You know by the way she's avoiding your gaze that your words in there shook her more than she's admitting, and you feel comfortable in reassuring her under the protection of your working title.
"I think it has a fair shot." You know her well enough to be honest but not detailed in your answers. She knows that there are risks involved in these negotiations, but she's never asked you what they are; her sanity rests upon knowing no more than she needs to.
You repress the urge to still her restless arms by backing a step away to trap your tempted hands between your back and the steadiness of the thick basement wall.
As she nods her head at your words, you brace yourself for what you are about to do. You know by the way her eyes linger on your body a few seconds more than is appropriate that she will be requesting your presence tonight.
This is why you press your back further against the wall, making sure your hands are not moving on their own, making sure your body remembers pain. It's the reason your eyes shun hers like the intense glare of the sun and it's why you turn your body slightly away from hers as she takes half a step towards you.
"Let's skip the drinks tonight." You pretend you don't hear the slight change in her voice, how it dropped just a fraction more at her words. Your body acts the traitor as it starts to pull into her orbit and you have to drag your hands across the rough surface of the wall to punish them for remembering how hot her skin is under your fingers.
"I can't." Is all you offer her as you force your legs to move towards the door, threatening your limbs with promises of brutal retribution if they do not obey your request.
Even with your back towards her, you can feel her raising her eyebrows at your words, her mind not grasping their vague context.
"You can't skip drinks?" She asks and you're somewhat surprised at her lack of deductive reasoning. It's certainly not a trait you'd ever associate with her and you start to wonder if the crisis in the room behind the door affected her more than you realised.
You need to leave, to outrun the temptation she presents so you force your body to remember its state as she left you on the kitchen floor last night. It's the penalty it receives for tingling from the scent of her perfume.
"They need me inside." You don't feel the wood under your hands as you push the doors open and leave her standing on the other side; your body is too preoccupied with processing the ludicrousness of your choices and the first lie you told her.
So you sit there, at the table were decisions of life and death are formed, with your head in your hands wondering if there was any logic in refusing the offer of tasting her heat. It's a thought you can't shake, a doubt that gnaws on you for the rest of a long day, until the phone call comes and your mind fills with the prospects of new chances for peace.
You get to tell them, take the grateful thanks of a relieved president and his staff. You pride in the way her face lights up as you tell them both that the negotiations worked and for now there are no direct threats of destruction.
He tells you how he loves quick and peaceful resolutions and you know that none of you are fooled. You didn't win a victory; you bought a few days by taking a huge risk. But the twinkle in her eyes makes you think of battles won. That is until reality strikes you down when Margret pokes her head in through the adjoining door to tell her employer that Danny called yet again.
You thank the redheaded secretary for her professional expression, but the smile on the President's face makes you decide to excuse yourself before you think thoughts you would never forgive yourself for lending time to, especially in the oval office.
Before you can make your escape, she calls you to her office as she reaches for the phone.
You stand there for a second, wondering if she knows what she's doing to you, if she understands the wounds she's inflicting on your heart by asking you to witness her conversation with a man she once shared herself with.
But leaving is not an option, you know she'll use her professional stature if she needs to, and you need to move because you're standing in the office of the President.
So you thank the head of your country for his time and make your way into the room you've wanted to avoid the rest of your time in this house.
Sliding the door shut, you position yourself as far away from her and as close as you can to the exit, not making yourself too comfortable but sitting on the edge of an armrest.
She's still on the phone, flipping through some papers which to you indicate that this is not a social call. Her voice is professional and strained, the forced wittiness edging to the surface and you try to suppress the smile that is tugging on the corner of your lips.
"No, I… Danny, I…" She sighs dramatically as he interrupts her again and you can't help but feel relieved and somewhat gloating at the fact that he's annoying her. "I can't tonight, I have plans." You feel your heart rate pick up at the possibility that he just asked her out and you chose to hear that she didn't tell him no but that she couldn't make it this night.
So you stand up, making a gesture towards the door as her eyes search for you and you feel the desperation build in your chest as she shakes her head, holing up her index finger in a silent plead for you to wait just a minute longer.
You sigh, but make no attempt towards the door. The civil war in you is fought by your heart against your mind, but you're consciously avoiding listening to their arguments.
You listen to her ending the conversation with not much else said between them. She left it open and you know why; she needs to know there will always be someone she can rely on to make her forget. The consequences of your choice become vividly clear as you realise how easily she'll replace you. It's the thought of his hands on her body; his lips were yours have been that will keep your sanity from winning.
"Give me ten, and then we're out of here." She lets her eyes follow the curves of your body as she hangs up the phone. Her voice conveys her exhaustion but none of the desire you see in her eyes.
"I can't." You'd think you'd have come up with a better reply by now, but instead you recite the words that she didn't understand the first time. She wants you to go home with her, to kiss you, touch you, and you feel your body start to relent to the temptation again.
It's the prospect that you can touch her that is the hardest. But this time, you know your heart cannot take another beating, so you listen to its despairing beseeches for mercy.
You feel your heart crumble in your chest as she barely looks up from the papers she's trying to force into her over packed briefcase.
"I thought you were done for the day?" She's surprised and she doesn't understand your meaning. But you can't find the strength to explain it to her.
Right now the only thing you have to lose is your dignity and around her, you don't care about that. Somehow you think it might be easier if you tell her, if she knows how you feel she won't put you in this position again. But the emotional strength to get through that kind of revelation is more than you possess at this time.
So you opt for the only path revealed to you; to flee.
"I am." It came out to real, and you know that your voice sounded as broken as you feared as she stops her forceful jamming of papers to look at you.
She sees you, for the first time since it all began. You know it from the way her surprised expression turns into a state of disquietude when you refuse to meet her eye.
"Kate…" Her voice is reaching out for you and you're not sure you'll be able to hold onto your persuasion much longer.
You do not dare to look at her as you whisper your wishes of a good night and you make your exit before she can stop you, or your determination falters.
And now you know it's neither the frost on the windows or the negotiations of peace that will signify this day in your mind, but the look on her face when she finally saw you.
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