The last two weeks the car rides to the White House had been anything but quiet— she'd ramble on about the kids. Stevie took up their conversations the majority of the days, at least until the elder daughter had decided to move back home last week. He'd learned early on not to push too much before she was whisked away to handle a security concern, so the car rides were, mostly, on her terms— it was the one time he would, without comment, let her do and say what she wanted.

He had been pleasantly, but still cautiously, surprised by the shift in moods— the last two weeks the car rides to the White House had been anything but quiet. She'd been rambling. He couldn't place it, couldn't decide if it was nerves or happiness. A week in he noticed that the trembling that was usually there, the anxiety provoking silence that had fallen between them, had gone.

Although he had been cautious, although he hadn't let the idea that everything was in fact okay take over, he had let himself hope that just maybe it was.

…That hope was squashed when Daisy, followed by Nadine marched up to his desk, demanding a moment of the Secretary's time immediately after Mrs. Boris was escorted down the hall. Though after about two whole minutes of waiting they had both decided that an explanation about what he now knew was some sort of a botched operation caught on camera couldn't wait.

And now as they sit in the back of the SUV, the trembling was back.

"I know I can't ask, but—" He can't find the courage to finish.

He ducks his head when a minute passes without an answer.

And the car is quiet until— "I knew about it," she mutters.

His eyes lift as she turns from the window.

"I signed off on it," she tells him.

And another silence falls over the car until they're pulling through the gates.

"I shouldn't be long," she tells him. "Well, I guess that depends on how angry Conrad decides to be."

"I'll be here," he mumbles as he hands over her briefcase and then her purse.

He waits for her at the doors. And the President must be pretty pissed because she's in there for over two hours.

"I'm going to Turkey," she tells him as they walk back to the car.

He has a bad feeling about the trip for the remainder of the day, and it's not until he receives a call requesting him on the tarmac does he allow himself to read into those feelings.

"She wouldn't leave without talking to you first," Frank says as he's escorted up the airstair— his hand grips the rail as they take the steps two at a time.

When he turns the corner into the cabin, he sees her pacing up and down the aisle between the seats, one hand on her forehead while the other is at her hip.

"What's going on?" He asks as he closes the distance between them.

She looks up, her hand falls away from her head, and— "Good. You're here," she breathes. "I didn't want to leave without talking to you first."

He can feel his forehead pinching in the middle.

He didn't like the way she looked— hair pulled back, sweat on her brow, sleeves rolled up just above her elbows. He didn't like the way she sounded— panicked, and even a bit out of breath.

She holds her hands out and— "I trust you," she says.

He nods. "Okay," he mutters.

He watches as she licks her lips, as she brushes away a strand of hair, as she crosses her arms over her chest— she's nervous.

"I— I need to tell you something," she says as her gaze drifts. "Though I'm breaking a number of US Code of Laws," she mumbles.

"Madam Secretary?"

Her eyes find his and— "Secretary Marsh's plane crash—" She shakes her head. "It wasn't an accident. He was murdered."

His mind fogs, but he pushes through; there has to be a reason she's telling him this.

He steps forwards, towards her, and then asks, "Who?"

He sees her swallow, and her chest looks like it's about to deflate. How long had she been holding this in?

"There's a connection to a woman who works for the Iranian Foreign Intelligence Ministry."

He nods, and suddenly what happened in Turkey makes sense. "The woman murdered in Ankara?"

"Yes," she says.

Covert op gone bad.

He lets out a breath, and— "Okay," he mutters as he lowers himself into the nearest seat.

She does the same.

He looks up and across the table to her face, searching her eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because right now you're one of four people I trust, and I need someone inside the State Department to know why I'm really flying to Ankara."

He watches her stand. "But I'm just—"

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand, and— "Come," she commands.

He follows her to the front of the plane.

"I can come with you," he tells her.

She sucks in a breath. "No," she says. "I need you here, okay?"

He takes a step towards the door. "Of course, Madam Secretary."

He hated the idea of her flying alone, of traveling alone, especially with the information he was just provided. But he trusted her, just as she trusted him. And that trumped his nerves over this ordinary apologetic trip that was anything but.