He relaxes back against the couch as Dr. Crawford takes the chair across from him. She flips open a notebook, and shuffles around a few loose pieces of paper before— "How's your week going?" She asks as her eyes lift up.
"Busy," he sighs. "I'm sure you've seen the news."
She nods. "Your boss seems to have her hands full," she says. "How is she?" Leah asks. "I know the last time we talked you were worried about her."
His last two sessions had turned into him voicing his concern over her wellbeing— over forty five minutes of him rambling about her. He thinks that can't be normal, but Leah reminded him that this stuff, the stress, needed to come out somehow.
He thinks for a moment that she's been behaving the same ever since she arrived home, but in reality, he saw her deteriorating right in front of his own two eyes— one outburst at a time. The little scene at the White House was what convinced him. She had never had that kind of an attitude when speaking to the president, she'd never walked out of the Situation Room before either. He followed her down the hall. One pulled stitch later, and he's blotting blood from her blouse. One pulled stitch later, and he's left wondering if she had stitches anywhere else. And of course, there was still the letter. It's written off as lack of sleep by Henry, but he knows better.
"I had to call her an ambulance this morning," he says. "They thought it was a heart attack at first, but it turned out to be a panic attack."
"That must have been frightening," she comments.
And he can't help but remember the way her hand was pulling at the collar of her blouse; the way her chest heaved as she collapsed down into one of the conference room chairs.
He wished that was the most alarming thing he'd seen today.
"Okay the real question is, do we really think she's actually okay?"
He had to laugh a little because they were the ones who had been pushing the narrative so hard that she was fine. But he'd been the one by her side at the office, he'd been the one who covered up her missteps, and he'd been the one who, at the end of each day, told Nadine that something was very wrong. And each time he'd been the one shut down.
"Oh, of course, she is," he says with a smile. It's meant to be sarcastic, but he doesn't think it comes off that way. He thinks it's ironic that it has to go this far, she has to go this far, for them to realize that just maybe she's not okay.
He's so fed up, so frustrated with the group, that he leaves the room.
"She's okay until she tells us she isn't," Nadine says.
And he couldn't disagree more because he thinks she's incapable of doing so. How could she tell them that she wasn't okay when she herself couldn't realize it?
"Very," he says. He licks his lips and then— "I just want to help her, but—" He shrugs. "It's like she doesn't even know she needs it."
Once he tells Mike to handle the meeting with Owen Walton, he slips into her office.
She's in the corner, hunched over, hands on her knees, choking on her own sobs.
He crosses the room and is next to her within in a second.
A hand falls to her back, and his touch is gentle, soft until he knows it's welcomed.
"They died because of me," she cries.
And he urges her up into a standing position before he pulls her back against his chest. His arms wrap around her middle, holding her tight. He thinks there's no point in trying to argue with her, convince her that this wasn't her fault, not in the state she was in.
"Henry will be here soon," he whispers. And he wishes he were here now because he doesn't know how to handle this. He thinks he better learn.
"I— I can't stop seeing it," she sobs.
She sounds so distressed. He hopes the four people in the next room over can't hear her— really one in particular.
"I couldn't get to him." She takes a wheezing breath in before her chest shakes again.
And he has no idea what she's talking about, but he continues to hold her tight.
"You seem to be really emotionally invested in your job," Dr. Crawford says.
And maybe that's the problem. Maybe this wasn't just a job anymore.
~MS~
It's late when he finds himself on their doorstep.
"She was asking for you earlier," he says as he ushers him inside.
He can't imagine why.
"Is she upstairs?" He asks.
When Henry nods he takes a step towards the staircase, but— "Can I talk with you for a minute before you go up?"
"Of course," he says as he follows him to the living room.
He takes a seat on the sofa as Henry pours himself two fingers worth of whiskey from the decanter. They were never ones to keep alcohol on display in their sitting room. He wonders when, why they'd started to keep a set of glasses on the coffee table.
Henry offers up a glass to him as he sits back in one of the chairs, but he turns him down with a wave of his hand.
"How is she?" He asks. "Has she slept?"
"I think she finally fell asleep about twenty minutes ago, but—" He looks to his lap, and in his hands is the envelope with Mrs. Cole's name scrawled across the front. "This—" He shakes his head. "I don't know what to do with this," he admits.
And he doesn't know what to say, doesn't want to speak out of turn— he has his opinion, and he knows Henry has his own.
"No one can see this." He swallows. "No one can know about this," he whispers.
He stays quiet, waiting to see if Henry would say more, but when another moment filled with the crackling of the fire passes, he speaks up. "Henry this isn't just your wife we're talking about. This is a woman who is fourth in line for the presidency," he tells him. "She has almost unlimited access to classified information. She advises the president on military action—" He sighs. "If she needs help, she needs to get it."
"She agreed to talk to someone tomorrow." He sips from his drink and then— "Someone Russell knows."
He wants to ask why Russell Jackson was the one giving recommendations, but he gives a nod instead.
"I just—" Henry begins as his eyes fall back to the letter. "I don't want this to fall into the wrong hands." He looks up. "They'll think she's crazy."
And maybe she was going a little crazy. A week without sleep would do that to you, but he thinks the problem may be a bit more concerning than lack of sleep.
He pushes up from the couch and extends a hand.
And although he has an expression that reads confusion on his face, Henry hands over the envelope.
He turns it over in his hands, taking one last look at it. Somewhere deep down he knows Henry is right, this can't get out— it has her signature at the bottom, the seal of the State Department at the top, and in between are two whole pages of crazy.
He taps the edge against his hand before he looks up. "Nobody needs to know," he says.
Nobody needs to know until they do.
He steps over to the fireplace and tosses the letter into the fire. He fists his hands into his pockets as he watches the edges singe first, and a minute later the entire thing degrades into nothing but ash.
"She's going to need lots of support, Blake."
He turns.
Did he really have to ask?
"She already has mine," he mutters.
He nods his head to the stairs before he crosses the room. And as he walks down the hall to their bedroom, he thinks this definitely wasn't just a job anymore.