He fought for her in her own foyer.

He'd worked in silence as they pinned dates, and locations on the board. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he'd found it hard to wrap his brain around all of it. She'd only just got back from Turkey; just told him that Secretary Marsh was murdered. And now? Now they were looking at a very real possibility of a war with Iran.

He'd been surprised by Nadine's admission of the relationship between herself and Vincent Marsh, but now, now as he's thinking it through, thinking back over her first impression of the Secretary, and why that attitude may have been, he thinks he should have seen it sooner. And when she admits to the affair of six years, all the pieces begin to fall into place— her involvement; the reason why the Secretary had him looking into her, looking through her phone calls, her emails, and her bank statements; why she had access to the bank account in Caracas. It made sense, and he wishes it didn't.

They were in the back of the car, riding back from the White House. She'd been there for hours, so he'd assumed. He had assumed that they had figured out some plan to stop the Middle East, and frankly the whole world from crumbling to pieces, and maybe even going up in a nuclear flash.

"Progress?" He'd asked.

He didn't want to push, not when she had her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, not in peace, but from fear.

She'd nodded, and said, "We're deciding in the morning."

It's vague, but he doesn't question it, figuring she'd tell him when she thought best.

And maybe it made sense because of the bit of alcohol he'd thrown back while at the bar with the others, but he had no reason not to believe her.

He should have seen it— the way her body was turned away from his, the way her eyes wouldn't meet his own.

The seventh floor is oddly quiet when he arrives half past six the next morning. He chalks up the feeling to the utter madness of what went on yesterday, and what he'd bet his paycheck on would go on today. As he makes his way to his desk, he sends a text to Frank, reminding him to message when the Secretary departed for the Truman.

He'd triple checked her schedule, clearing away everything that was able to be cleared; he'd cleaned up his inbox, deleting what needed to be deleted, and responding to the emails that held importance; he'd organized his desk before taking it upon himself to organize hers. He finds his eyes glancing towards the clock almost every four minutes.

He sends a text to the Secretary herself before beginning to arrange binders for the next week, assuming of course this whole mess with Marsh, and Munsey, and Iran would be settled come the next seven days.

It's quarter till eight when he picks up the phone to call Fred, officially beginning to worry. The line goes straight to voicemail. He tries Frank next, and when he gets no response, he makes his way down two more names before he finally pushes his chair away from his desk.

He tries to remind himself not to worry until he has to, but he had never good at mindful thinking, especially when it came to her. And when he thinks about all the boundaries she'd pushed, all the people she'd pissed off, not even five full months into this job, he begins to sweat through his shirt.

He knocks against the glass, but he's already stepping through the door before she has the chance to wave him in.

"Where is she?" He means to be stern, but it comes out more of a whisper. And he almost hopes she doesn't hear because he has a feeling he's not going to like her answer.

She looks up over the thin frames of her glasses, and— she frowns. "She didn't tell you?"

And she's just as surprised as he is.

Half an hour later he's pushing past Henry into their entryway.

He sidesteps him and— "You can't let her do this," he says.

The words fly out of his mouth as he looks into the office. And when she's not there he moves to the staircase.

"Where is she?"

He has one hand on the rail when— "Blake, she left an hour ago."

His jaw clenches, and his fingers tighten around the wood— it feels as if he'd been hit in the chest.

"But—" His hand falls away, and he turns, shaking his head. "—the SUVs out front. She's—"

Henry takes a step towards him. "They only took one," he tells him.

He swallows back the bit of acid he can feel at the back of his throat. He feels dizzy. He feels… He feels fire. Rage towards her, towards Nadine, towards—

He looks up and his eyes meet Henry's and— "You let her go?"

He watches as he visibly stumbles over his words.

"Ultimately, in the end, Elizabeth does what Elizabeth wants. I—"

He laughs.

Was he serious?

Maybe she had before this job, before she'd taken him on as her assistant, but ever since that first Wednesday behind the desk, he was the one calling the shots. Maybe he was blind to what he really did, does, maybe she was too. And maybe Elizabeth did do what she wanted, but the Secretary certainly did not.

He takes a step forward. "You could have stopped her."

Henry shakes his head.

He points a finger at his chest. "You should have stopped her!"

He didn't normally raise his voice, but he decides right now he can't be held accountable for his actions.

"Blake."

It's a warning. And it takes him four seconds and a quick glance over his shoulder to realize Stevie is standing on the landing.

He steps close, close enough that his voice would only be heard by the two of them.

"Why in the hell didn't she tell me she was going?" He hisses.

"I— I'm sorry."

He steps back. "So am I," he breathes.

He makes for the door, but when his hand grasps the knob he turns, looking to Stevie. "Tell Alison I said happy birthday."