"But, ma'am, would you really miss Prince Obaid's funeral?"
He feels helpless watching as she contemplates, head down towards the floor, or maybe her lack of response is simply because she didn't hear Daisy at all. And when she pushes off from the table, he's a bit uncomfortable that the three others are witnessing what's sure to be a private moment, what should be a private moment.
Nadine steps back, out of her way, and when she brushes past him, her eyes lock with his— he doesn't only see the hurt there, but the pleading to do what she normally despised. And when Nadine makes no move to do so, he steps up, holding his palm out to Daisy, and— "She needs a minute," he tells her.
Gatekeep.
It didn't always involve her food.
Daisy steps back, but— "She needs to make a decision," she says.
He looks to Nadine, hoping maybe she'd take this one, but she remains quiet.
Really?
"She does," he says reluctantly, agreeing. He crosses his arms over his chest, knowing full well that the stance made him appear larger. A little intimidation never hurt. "And she will."
Nadine has the two cents to usher the other two out, leaving him alone in the conference room. And although the room is separate, it still is connected to her office, and more privacy was better than less. Or maybe she had been thinking that she had better get Daisy and Jay far away before he actually became intimidating.
He raises his wrist, and pulls back the cuff of his sleeve, checking the time— he decides to give her another five minutes before going in.
He hears the water running when he steps through to her office. And when he's close enough to see into the bathroom through the open doorway, she's standing in front of the sink, dabbing at her face with a towel.
"Madam Secretary?" His voice is soft.
When she continues to stare straight ahead into the mirror, he worries she may not have heard him.
He takes a step closer to the door and— "Ma'am?" He tries again.
She nudges the handle of the faucet with her wrist and the water cuts off. She straightens up, lets out a breath, and throws the hand towel down onto the countertop. And after she watches it land half in the sink, half out, she turns.
"It's my fault he's dead," she says.
Her cheeks are red, but pale almost from the makeup, or lack of, that had been rubbed away.
He shakes his head. "It's not," he tells her.
"It is," she says firmly as she pushes past him.
She makes it halfway to her desk when she stops mid step, letting her shoulders slump.
"I'm the one who convinced him to come out against the Hassanis. I—" And the last of what she'd planned to say was swept up into a mumble of words, and a cry.
He'd seen anger plenty of times before. Even a touch of jealousy one afternoon when that rumor circulated about Henry having an affair. There'd been glimpses of vulnerability, but so far, he'd never seen her upset to this extent.
And while he wants to take a step back and wonder why she allows herself to be vulnerable around him instead of any other member of the senior staff, he pushes the question of why him out of his head and steps up behind her.
He lays a hand on her arm, and— "The only person at fault is the crazed gunman who shot Prince Obaid in the chest."
When she lets out a shaky breath, he turns her— her eyes find his and both her hands find his arms.
"Do you want me to call Henry?" he whispers.
She nods.
"Okay," he says, but she doesn't move, and he doesn't step back until she does.