The last minute addition of Venezuela to the itinerary hadn't phased him— she'd added on eleventh hour stops before. No, it wasn't the change of schedule, it was her newfound demeanor. And not only hers.
'You two have been quite chummy,' he'd commented as they walked out into the garden.
She merely shook her head.
He glanced over to the Secretary who was still happily occupied with Colonel Fuentes, before doing what he did next.
He'd grabbed her bicep, leading her over to one of the benches beneath the trees, nearly out of sight, and certainly out of earshot.
'What was that?' He hissed.
She'd smiled. 'You don't do well when you're out of the loop do you?'
He felt his eye twitching. 'Nadine,' he warned.
She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders. 'Why don't you go ask your boss?'
'Our boss,' he'd corrected. 'And don't think I haven't noticed the way you two have been holed up in her office lately.'
'That's a conversation that needs to happen between you and her.' She sidestepped him. 'All I'll say is that she just saved my ass,' she said before making her way across the grass.
He hovered in the doorway of her office, caught between keeping his mouth shut and asking. He wasn't one to pry, not when it came to the actual political side of her job, but he could argue that whatever this was that was going on was affecting her emotionally. Ever since that night she was called to the Sit—
"Are you just going to stand there?"
His eyes dart up. "Ma'am I—"
"Go home, Blake," she tells him. She looks up over the frames of her glasses. "It's late."
He debated turning around and forgetting the knot of worry building in his gut. But he remembered his job, what he needed to do, and who he needed to do it for.
He steps further into the room and— "What is going on?"
He sees her swallow as she slowly pulls her glasses from her face and folds the arms in before setting them atop her desk.
She meets his eyes and— "And what is it that you're referring to?" She folds her hands in her lap.
He steps up to her desk. "I'm referring to your sudden liking of Nadine," he says. "I'm referring to the abrupt switch up in the schedule. First booting Nauru only to bring in the Israeli delegation, and then, with all due respect ma'am, adding Venezuela to the South American tour when we had no business of being there." He takes a breath. "Or maybe how you shake every time we're in route to the White House."
He sees her stiffen, and her gaze falls once the last two words leave his lips.
He sucks in a breath— he probably shouldn't have said that last bit.
And he's completely prepared for her to give him the boot, but instead she sighs and runs a hand through her hair— the gesture is just as good as her verbally admitting that something was wrong.
"Blake," she whispers. She shakes her head. "I can't tell you," she mutters. "I won't tell you," she says more sternly.
She's almost hiding it, but he can see the concern playing out on her face. From him noticing? From whatever it was that was going on? He didn't know.
"I— You can tell me anything," he says softly.
"Not this." She meets his eyes. "Not yet, okay?"
He nods out of respect, but— "I'm staying with you," he tells her.
She's shuffling papers around her desk now. "Fine," she breathes. "I have a call with Isabelle. It shouldn't be more than half an hour."
"Okay." He takes the hint. "I'll be at my desk," he tells her.
'I trust you,' he means.
He works at his computer for the next hour while she chats with Isabelle— he could've told her that their talk would surpass the thirty minutes she'd estimated. Recently, they'd become closer, regularly seeming to grab dinner. Fred had said she'd been visiting their home quite a bit. But tonight, at nearly midnight, their talk didn't seem like a gossip session between two old friends.
He gets a notification when the call disconnects.
"I have a few briefs I want to get through," she says when he takes her coat off the hanger. And instead of telling her she can take her work home with her, he draped her jacket over the back of the chair and held his tongue.
As she reads, he sits on the sofa, first reviewing tomorrow's schedule, and then clearing out his inbox.
It's a quarter after one when she huffs. He looks up as her head falls back against her chair.
"Okay," she says, and he, understanding the one word, stands and begins collecting her things.
"You really shouldn't have stayed Blake," she mutters as he helps her into her coat.
"If you're here I'm here ma'am."
She shrugs it on before turning.
He hands over her briefcase, and— "I moved back your morning."
He was sure she would argue, but instead she patted his arm and gave a small smile.
"Thank you," she mumbles as they make for the door.
He flips the light switch on the wall just as they're stepping through the doorway, and— "You got a minute?
His head whips up and it's hard to miss the way the Secretary slightly jumps. And the man on the sofa isn't only the last person he wants to see right now, but he knows Russell Jackson is the last person his boss needs lounging outside her office in the middle of the night.
"You scared me," she admits.
"I thought we might have a talk," he tells her, and it's almost like he's not there. His eyes are on hers.
He can't miss the way the muscles in her neck tighten, the way her shoulders stiffen. She swallows, turns her head, and— "Go home Blake." Her words are dry, her tone is tired, and her eyes… well he can't seem to place the emotion he sees there.
He steps towards her, dropping his head. "Are you sure?" He whispers.
"I'll be fine," she says, but he's not convinced. "Go home," she repeats.
He gives her one last look, silently asking one more time, but she nods. He gives Russell a stare before leaving them.
"You want to know about what went on in Venezuela?" he hears as he turns the corner.
He walks to the elevator feeling even more uneasy than he did this morning.