He has her coat bunched in his hands, waiting patiently— today there was no other option. Patience would have to do.
"Ma'am, it's time to leave," he says, reminding her of the time.
The pen in her hand freezes, but she doesn't reply, doesn't look up— her face remains passive, and her eyes stay downcasted on her desk.
And she continues to write.
Writing what, he didn't know. He wouldn't ask questions today, hadn't yesterday either… Not when they were putting to rest the man who died so it wasn't her they'd be burying today.
They'd been letting her run rampant in a way, allowing her to do as she pleased. He hadn't stopped and assessed that yet, but he thinks he may need to if she continues on this way. He'd tried to convince himself, like the others already had, that she was fine, but he hadn't been able to get the image of her stepping off the plane and the quietness of the car ride from Joint Base Andrews to Georgetown out of his mind.
She continues to slowly draw the pen across the page.
He thinks this is when anyone else would snap, but he's not anyone. He reminds himself that what she needs is patience, and it's what he would give because two funerals in two days couldn't be healthy for her.
"Ma'am," he says quietly.
And this time she sets the pen down and begins to carefully fold the paper. He watches as she pushes her chair back from her desk and she's halfway to standing when she cries out, one hand falling to the edge of the wood, while the other goes to her back.
He's by her side in an instant— coat tossed aside.
Both of his hands are outstretched, hovering close. "Madam Secretary?"
"I'm fine," she bites out.
The response is gritted out through her teeth.
And when her eyes snap to his, the first thing he notices is that she looks eerily pale.
She'd arrived a mess this morning— clothes wrinkled, heavy bags underneath her eyes. Four days home, and he thinks she's gone another night without sleep.
"Let's go," she mutters as she reaches for something on her desk.
But before she has the chance, he says, "How about a touch of makeup?"
Her head lifts up, eyeing him.
He thinks this may be when she fires him.
"There'll be cameras," he says softly.
Her hand is shaking when it comes up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. She gives a tight nod and walks towards the bathroom. He's a pace behind.
He found himself following more closely than usual since she'd arrived home. Just in case. That's what he told himself, but of what?
He's leaning against the doorframe, watching her carefully, as he hopes he's not hovering too much.
She's looking down into the zippered pouch too long for something not to be wrong.
He pushes off the jamb, and— "Ma'am?"
It takes five seconds too long for her to look his way.
"Hmm," she mumbles.
It looks like her mind is elsewhere, but he can't blame her.
"How about just a bit of blush?"
She nods but makes no move to find it in the bag.
And he thinks if they don't leave within the next ten minutes, they are going to be late, so he steps up to the counter and digs through the kit until he pulls out the right compact.
This was yet another moment where he wished he had a sister, but he'd seen her apply makeup a handful of times— he hopes it isn't harder than she makes it look.
He dabs a brush against the middle before lightly applying it to her right cheek and then her left, swiping in an upward stroke. He blots it against the pigment once more, wanting to add a bit of color to her nose, but when he raises the brush, her hand comes up and grabs his wrist.
"I need a minute," she says before gasping.
"Okay," he mutters, but she makes no move to step back.
He thinks they're not going to make it to the funeral after all.
And her fingers are still gripping his wrist when— "Just get through these next two hours and we'll get you home," he tells her.
~MS~
He stands at the back of the church, waiting for the rest of the McCord family to arrive—He has one eye on the door, one eye on the aisle. And he gives a smile to those he recognizes and even those he doesn't.
The kids walk in first, and he points them in the direction of their mother. Henry's shaking hands with the priest who will be leading the Requiem Mass, and once they've exchanged pleasantries, he approaches.
"Dr. McCord," he greets.
He nods. "Blake."
He swallows. "Could I have a word?" He asks, and he's already stepping off to the side, near a corner, before he can answer.
He knows he should have said this sooner, spoken to him after he had first come to the house, but he'd still been angry— he was still angry.
"I wanted to apologize for my behavior at the house," he says. "I was out of line, and it—"
He holds up a hand. "No. You were right," he tells him. "I should have fought her harder."
He gives a nod, not knowing what to say.
And before another moment filled with light chatter and clacking heels against the tile passes, he whispers, "She doesn't look good Henry."
He looks through the glass to the other side of the church— she's sitting quietly in one of the front pews, head down. The children sit to her left, talking amongst themselves as she stares blankly at the floor.
"She's pushing through," he says.
His head turns back, and he has to ask himself if he's serious— from the expression on his face, he can see that he is. And he thinks her own husband is just as delusional as the rest of the senior staff.
He sighs as he slips a hand inside his jacket pocket, taking out the envelope she'd had him assemble before they'd left the office— turns out he did need to monitor what she'd been writing.
He outstretches his hand, and— "This is for Fred Cole's wife."
Henry's forehead pinches as he reaches a hand out. "And?" He asks as he takes it.
He sucks in a breath before letting it out. "Elizabeth wrote it." It feels odd on his lips, but his use of her name will get his point across. "She asked me to give it to her," he explains.
"Okay," he mutters, still unsure of what he was saying.
He shakes his head. "I'm not giving this to Mrs. Cole."
He sees Nadine walking down the middle aisle, eyes wandering over the rows of benches, searching for someone.
Henry's gaze falls, and he turns the envelope over in his hands before looking back to him. "Why?"
And Nadine's approaching them now, having found them tucked away in the corner.
"Dr. McCord," she greets with a smile. "The Secretary has requested you." She sweeps an arm to the right, motioning for him to follow.
He swallows. "Read it," he tells him.
His eyebrows are still furrowed as he slips the envelope into his own coat pocket.
He thinks he'll understand when he realizes that the two page letter consists of one repeated phrase.
I'm sorry. He died because of me.
Minutes later he makes his way up the center aisle before slipping into the pew with the rest of the staff— the McCord family sat three ahead. And for the hour that the Mass takes, his eyes never left her.