AN: Someone pointed out that this is a weird title for this story, and I hands down agree. It's a very long story of how I came up with it, but to put it shortly, it's a play on the phrase 'Everything's coming up aces.'
~MS~
He cried for her in the conference room.
He's never been one to be weak.
He stands staring out the window, watching as the cars pass by, as the people walk along the sidewalk, as DC carries on without her.
He has this deranged belief that he could have stopped her, saved her, convinced her not to sacrifice her own safety for… well the coup still happened. She didn't, couldn't, stop it. President Shiraz's status is still unknown, but if he did die, what was it that she nearly sacrificed her life for?
If she died, what exactly did she die for?
He hadn't been at this job that long, yet he was beginning to understand why so many politicians suffer heart attacks— he didn't know if he could handle something like this again, and with her track record, with her ambitions, with her carefree attitude, he was screwed.
But he'd rather be screwed, he'd rather suffer a near heart attack every evening if it meant she'd come home in one breathing, one heart beating, piece.
He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and— "We're not losing another Secretary of State."
He shakes his head, as he lets his hand fall from where he was pulling back the curtain.
"If she dies it'll be my fault," he says.
The hand on his shoulder urges him to turn and when he does, he's being pulled down into a hug.
"You know that wouldn't be true," Nadine whispers.
He pulls back. "No," he says.
She frowns, and— "Blak—"
"Nadine." It's Jay's voice.
They both turn, and he watches as Jay nods towards the Secretary's office. An intern stands, hovering in the doorway.
"Russell Jackson is on the phone for you ma'am," she says.
He watches her nod.
"I'll be back," she announces to everyone in the room, but she's looking directly at him.
"Sit, okay?" She says before turning and following the young woman back through to the office.
He takes her advice and sinks into one of the chairs.
She's gone too long for it to be 'she's dead' but also too long for it to be a simple 'she's on a plane home.'
He wonders what it will look like if she does come home. What in the hell had she seen? What happened? Why was she unaccounted for?
He sighs, head leaning back against the leather, as he reminds himself that she has to be alive first.
The pocket doors slide open about ten minutes later; he swivels in his chair, and he can't help but notice the smile on her face.
He stands just before— "She's alive," she says.
And the weight on his chest, on his heart, falls away.
"She's alive," she repeats, looking into his eyes.
And he breathes, breathing for what it seems like the first time in two days.
He leans over the table, hands grasping the wood, as he lets out a breath.
She's alive.
And it's when he feels a hand clap him on his back, that he lets the tears that have been building, burning the back of his eyes, fall.
He's never been one to be weak.