"We're going to miss our reservation if you don't hurry up." When she waves him off, he begins to fidget where he stands near the fridge. He turns with a huff. "Henry," he pleads.

He stands in front of the stove, using a spatula to move around the contents of the pan.

"Elizabeth," he says. It doesn't sound like the warning he was hoping for. He doesn't even look up from the vegetables.

His jaw tenses. "Thanks," he mutters.

Henry's head lifts then— probably his tone. He raises the spatula and points it towards his wife. "She's dragging her feet." He shrugs. "What do you want me to do?"

"I—"

"We have time," Elizabeth butts in.

He lifts his wrist and pulls back his sleeve. One look at his watch, and— "We don't," he tells her. The tread of his shoes squeak against the wood when he spins back to the kitchen table. "You may be okay with being late, but I'm not so can we please go?"

She shuts the lid of her laptop with a smile. "All you had to do was ask," she says as she takes her glasses from her face and tosses them atop one of the magazines that litter the table.

His eyes nearly bug out. "The four reminders of the time weren't enough of a hint?"

She hums.

One day she was going to run him into the ground. And he swore she enjoyed teasing him.

"Tickets?" She asks as she leans down to pull on her heels.

He pats down the front of his coat, though he wonders, with her being who she was, did they really need them? "Have them."

She stands.

He opens an arm, motioning to the doorway. "Now." He sighs. "Out the door."

She swipes her clutch from the counter on their way out.

"Don't forget to enjoy yourself, Blake," Henry tells him.

If the rest of his evening even slightly resembled how his evening had begun, he thinks the only thing he'd be enjoying was one too many glasses of wine.

~MS~

"I need cheesecake," she whispers.

He leans into her. "Dinner wasn't enough for you?"

Her arm is looped through his as they walk along the red velvet carpet. Andrea and Matt lead the way, weaving them between the groups of people mingling in the entrance.

"After."

He wonders if any bakeries would still be open by the time they were done here. And as if she could read his mind— "I know a place," she tells him as they're ushered up the staircase and through velvet ropes.

Of course, she does.

"Elizabeth."

His ears perk up hearing her name. And they're both turning their gaze to the left.

Max Quinn. He hadn't heard that name in ages, let alone seen the guy.

"Max," she says. Her face hides her surprise, but her voice gives it away. She pulls her arm away from his and steps towards him, away from the stairs. "I um—" Her eyebrows pull in the middle. "—thought you'd moved back to New York. Visiting?"

"We decided to keep both of the houses," he explains. "Oh," he mumbles as he loops a hand under the bicep of the woman standing just slightly behind him. "My wife, Cindy."

"Madam Secretary," the woman mutters.

The Secretary smiles. "It's a pleasure."

And Max's stare wanders over to him before his eyes meet the Secretary's again. "No doc tonight?"

"Not tonight no," she says as she switches her clutch over to her left hand.

Max throws a look and a smirk his way. And he doesn't know if he's imagining the way he seems to be looking him over, up and down. "Well—" he lets out a puff of air before giving a smile. "I'll let you two go then."

"Enjoy the show," the Secretary says as they turn away, heading towards their own box.

She's suppressing a laugh when she steps back to his side.

He leans into her ear, and— "Be nice."

She makes a noise of complaint. "I was."

And it's true she was. That might have very well been the kindest she's ever been to the man.

"This way." Matt's holding a hand out to the right.

"You know," she starts as they begin walking. "He's only keeping both the houses so it's easier to keep his mistress away from his wife."

He can't help the laugh that builds in the back of his throat.

~MS~

They were sharing the box with three White House staffers— all junior level. The president had never been a huge fan of attending the performances, and while the seats were always open to Cabinet members, senators, House reps, and Supreme Court Justices, they often stood empty. The First Lady had made it a point to open the opportunity to attend to the entire White House staff. Tonight, they'd be accompanied by two press aides, and Madeline, a special assistant to the president.

While the others had taken their seats up front, they'd decided to hang back, out of view, until the show began.

"Thank you," he tells the stewardess once she'd placed two flutes of champagne onto the coffee table.

"I had no idea you were into Broadway," he says as he picks the glass up by the stem.

She's leaned back in her chair. "My parents used to take Will and me." She looks to her lap and begins to play with her bracelet. "Art museums. Shows… My mother thought we were too into sports and wanted us to be well rounded."

He sips from his glass. "When's the last time you've been to a show?"

Her head lifts. "Years?" Her lips shrug. "Before the kids, Henry and I used to go, but he went more for me." She pushes forwards, leaning down towards the table, and grabs her flute. "One crack about us being season ticket holders from his father, and—" She sighs. "He didn't care to go anymore."

"The kids don't care for it?" He asks.

"They all preferred sports and friends and anything but time with their mother." She laughs. "Though Ali seems to be coming around."

Kids will be kids. Better yet, teenagers will be teenagers.

"What about you? I had no clue you could sing." She brings her glass to her lips.

The corners of his lips tug up. "My parents joke that I sang before I spoke sentences."

She smiles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the lights dim inside the theater. He carefully sets the glass of champagne onto the table before standing.

"Madam Secretary," he mutters, offering out his hand.

She slides her palm into his. "Blake I've told you before you can call me Elizabeth," she says as he pulls her up.

He rolls it over in his head. Elizabeth. Maybe one day when she was out of office.

His hand drops to her back. "Did you have a favorite show growing up?" If she notices the swift change of subject she doesn't comment.

She laughs. "It's silly, but I actually enjoyed Aladdin."

He takes her glass from her hand and hands it over to the stewardess on their way to the door.

"It was the last show I saw with my parents before the accident," she says softly.

He stops them, and— "I'm sorry," he tells her, looking into her eyes.

"No, it's a happy memory."

He nods. "Well, hopefully, tonight can be another."

She squeezes his arm.

He looks to the door, and— "You know they're going to applaud you right?" He can't help but laugh when she cringes. She hated the attention, yet she found herself in a position that placed her as quite frankly the most powerful woman in the world.

He's about to step down when her hand on his arm stops him. "I know Henry pushed you into this," she says. "Don't feel like you have to do this again."

"No." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Tonight has been nice," he tells her. "I can't remember the last conversation we had that wasn't about work."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he confirms. "Now—" he steps to the side. "Shall we?"

~MS~

He's dropped at home late. They had gotten stuck in a conversation out in the lobby after the show with a lobbyist, one that she surprisingly knew and liked. And with her persistent prodding throughout the car ride, they just had to stop for cheesecake at Clyde's. It was there that he had an idea and was why now he found himself searching for tickets up and down the Eastern Seaboard for Aladdin.