His fingers hover over his keyboard as one of Nadine's interns, Rachel he believes, approaches his desk, walking as if her tail is tucked between her legs— surely not a good sign being as she'd just been in with the Secretary a moment ago.
He meets her eyes, and— "Yeah?" He asks.
He sees her swallow as she jerks out her arm in his direction, file in hand.
"Maybe you can talk to her?" She asks. "This needs to be signed off on, but—" She shakes her head. "She's obviously not in a good mood."
He raises a brow. She was fine an hour ago— smiling actually about the evening plans Henry had arranged since he couldn't make lunch.
"Sure." He reaches out and she eagerly hands over the folder. "I'm sure it's—" He begins, but she's already scurrying away. "Not your fault," he whispers as he stands to make the short walk to her office.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since she'd taken the oath, and she had yet to piss anyone off… well, no one important. No one important other than the one person who seemed to despise all and anything having to do with the Secretary. The new one at least. He'd heard talk that when Marsh was behind the desk on seven, she was happy, she was helpful, and she was more than willing to serve at the pleasure.
"I thought we weren't going to give Nadine any more reasons to hate you?" He asks as he passes through the door.
His footsteps falter when he realizes her head is in her hands.
"I think my days would be better spent trying to crack time travel than trying to get her to like me," she mumbles.
His forehead pinches as he strides towards the front of her desk.
Her hands fall away from her face and she glances in his direction.
He frowns.
Her fingers are pressing into her temples, rubbing in circles, and—
Headache…?
"Are you feeling unwell?" He asks as slips the folder onto the corner of her desk.
"I'm fine," she mutters, but her nose is scrunched up, her fingers continue to press into her skin, and he can almost see her wince.
"Fine doesn't send interns crying." His eyes roam the room, roam her desk. "And by the way Nadi—" His stare lands on the untouched salad. "Why haven't you eaten?"
She looks up and shrugs. "I'm just—" She sighs. "Not hungry, okay?"
His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.
He may have only been at this for the past two weeks, six if he counted the confirmation hearing and the transition period, but he knew from experience that although she often forgot, Elizabeth McCord was always hungry.
"You need to eat."
She shakes her head as she leans forward in her chair and grabs the top binder from the stack of four.
He rounds the desk. "It's not a choice," he says as he pulls at the back of her chair— having wheels on the bottom, it glides back effortlessly.
"Blake," she complains as he takes the binder from her hands.
He tosses it onto the middle of her desk. "Come," he demands.
The first two, maybe three days, she'd been the one leading him, but by the end of Wednesday he knew he would be the one managing her. Her schedule? He dictated it. Her emails? He sent them— though there was one morning where he'd woken up to see replies sent out around three am. 'I couldn't sleep.' She'd told him. Her eating habits were to be added to his list of his responsibilities— it was his job.
"I—"
He gives her a look. "I won't apologize for whatever it is you said to Rachel," he threatens.
"Blake." It's a whine. He knew she was avoiding her chief of staff, and he knew she knew that if he didn't apologize, Nadine very well may come stomping in here later this afternoon, demanding an apology.
"Follow me," he commands.
When she stands, he turns and makes for the door.
He looks over his shoulder, confirming she was indeed following, before— "If you didn't want a salad, I could've ordered something else," he says as they turn the corner.
"It's not the salad," she whispers.
He gives her a face, not much of one, but the little bit of a frown that now played on his lips was sure to be noticed, at least by her. He turns back.
"Good afternoon Madam Secretary." Someone on their left says— he hopes she gives them a smile.
She steps up to his side, maybe hoping he could block her from the staffers' eyes.
"I wasn't going to tell you this—" he begins as they pass through the doorway into the breakroom. He points to the table. "Sit," he commands. He's met with an eyeroll, but she's pulling the chair out from the table a moment later. He turns to the fridge. "I wasn't going to tell you—" he starts again. "—but you get grumpy when you don't eat regularly." He pulls a brown paper bag from the top shelf.
"Would you believe me if I told you I've been told before?"
He straightens up, turns to the table, and his mouth opens, but— she holds up a finger. "Don't answer that."
He smiles.
"So—" He sits, and he's already begun pulling the items from the bag. "I hope this'll do. If not, Matt has some soup in there I think you'd like."
"Really I—"
"Or I can always run out," he offers as he sets a container of yogurt unto the table.
"Blake."
He looks up. "Don't even try to tell me you're not hungry because you're following my sandwich with your eyes."
He separates the two halves and slides the napkin with the bigger one over to her.
"Go on," he urges, and she takes a bite.
They eat in silence for the next few minutes or so, enough time for her to finish her half, and work through the cup of yogurt he'd offered next.
"Are you going to tell me why you didn't eat?" He asks. "Because that salad—" although mostly more cheese and croutons then spinach. "—is your favorite," he says.
Her spoon scraps against the side of the plastic cup, and— she looks up. "I don't like eating alone," she admits.
His lips part. "Oh," he mutters. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, everything he had expected to be wrong, that possibility hadn't even occurred to him. It made sense. The last two weeks they'd been working on a minute-to-minute schedule— the staff had been eating together, sometimes stealing a bite to eat in the car on the way to a meeting, sometimes sitting together in the conference room. Today was the first day they'd had some downtime, time for a real lunch, a separate lunch.
He can manage this.
"Finish your yogurt," he tells her.
The next day he ate with her in her office, and the day after he arranged for Henry to eat with her at one of the parks they were quickly growing to like. Over the weekend he would create a rotating schedule between the senior staff of assigned lunch days and times— he'd leave out Nadine… hopefully just for now.