Something is being pressed into his hand as he's halfway out the door. He watches as she slides into the backseat of the SUV before turning back to the house. He eyes him before turning the small orange bottle over in his palm.
"I'm trusting you with her," Henry mutters.
He reads over the prescription label, eyes catching on her name printed in bold black letters.
"I'll call you later," he says. And he thinks he's in for a long conversation.
He walks to the car thinking his job is about to get a whole lot more difficult.
He knew she'd been having a hard time getting back to a normal schedule— he'd heard about it during the phone calls from Henry, hell he'd seen it himself.
The seventh floor was unpredictable in a way that he had come to love— each day different, a new crisis and new people being brought in to help come up with a quick fix. But even he, without having to hold the extra emotional weight that she did, had days where he wished he worked the normal nine to five.
There were steps already taken by himself and Henry to wean her back to working up on seven. At Henry's suggestion, she'd started with half days, and while she nagged about them coddling her, somedays even those half days proved to be too much.
She'd been doing all the right things— therapy; meditation; pacing herself at home and at work – but as the days grew longer, he could see how difficult it still was for her to stay focused. And without that focus issues arose with her staying calm. He'd seen firsthand when she'd lost her composure during a conversation that she usually would be able to handle in her sleep. Even in the moments of quiet spent alone in her office, she was struggling to hold it together— understandably so.
He tried to remind himself that progress isn't linear, but as he'd watched her seemingly fall apart one afternoon only to be fine the next morning it was… well, it had been his next starting topic at therapy.
Last Monday she'd officially came back full time. He had hoped it meant they were turning a corner, pushing past this, but when the official diagnosis comes it's like a punch in the gut.
That night after the phone call with Henry he stays up researching, learning, and taking notes down in a notebook because, as Henry reminds, he won't always be there— he hopes he can help her too.
He learns how stubborn she really is when Henry tells him she's been refusing to even carry the medication that had been prescribed in her name— hence the spare bottle handed off to him.
A week after that particular shared conversation he thinks he may be getting a hold of this, the new responsibilities. He thinks they're getting back to normal, though, when the evenings come, she no longer needed that first push out the door to go home that he had so frequently given. Now he found her waiting with her briefcase in hand when he came in to remind her of the time. He worries he may need to lighten her schedule, or maybe block out periods between meetings where she can rest.
He thinks they would need to find a new normal.
He had eventually, with much pestering, been able to sell her on the idea of naps at the office— he'd even brought one of her favorite blankets from home to keep tucked away in her closet.
One afternoon he'd walked through to wake her only to find her in hysterics over something she couldn't yet verbalize. He could see it in her eyes that she was ready to let go of it all, but it wasn't yet ready to let go of her— he wonders if it'll ever be.
And as he had slipped into the back of the SUV, tucking the bottle into his pocket, he didn't think he'd have to use the medication so soon.
~MS~
Some days proved to be harder than others. Some days she would snap at him, at the staff too. And some days the anxiety he was able to recognize while the others couldn't, presented as anger. It made for some awkward conversations, and depending on who she had been speaking to, some awkward apologies too.
From where he sat at his desk in the corner, he noticed the way she paced near the windows during the morning meeting, fidgeting with her clothing as she spoke. Another glance up from his screen and he sees her trying to steady her breath. And before he has the chance to take the reigns over the situation, she's storming from the room.
The table's quiet, everyone throwing Nadine a look, questioning what exactly had just happened, while Nadine turns in her own chair and stares over at him.
He gives it another minute before standing and following through the closed door.
He finds her pacing the space between the door to the conference room and the door to her office. And he can't help but notice the way she's pulling at the collar of her blouse.
"Let's take a moment," he urges.
She shoots him a look. "I don't need a moment!" And she continues to pace.
His eyebrows raise.
He thinks she's never needed a moment more than ever— she's never raised her voice in that way, at least not towards him, before. He thinks maybe he should have saved some leftover cheesecake from the night prior, though he didn't want to start up the cycle of emotional eating.
He would take the yelling— better him than god forbid Larry Ames. Although he wouldn't mind seeing the congressman's ego shoved down a few pegs.
When she ducks into her office he follows.
"I want Ames' schedule Blake," she tells him as she snags her purse from where it's sat atop the coffee table.
"Of course, ma'am, but—"
She whips around. "But?"
He steps up to her. "But first I need you to tell me what you plan on saying to him."
Get her to think it through.
She arches a brow. "I've got the whole car ride to think of something," she mumbles before she makes for the door.
He sighs.
He had the car ride to calm her down.
~MS~
He asks Henry if this is a good idea before they leave for Joint Base Andrews.
He doesn't get a proper answer, just an ask to take care of his wife while he was away.
Although he may be able to get her through Russell Jackson storming up to seven and into her office unannounced, he thinks even he wouldn't be able to put a cork into the panic attacks that were sure to come if something happened to him.
He gives his promise anyways.
He was pacing the length of the hallway, holding a phone to his ear, coordinating with Nadine as he waited.
And the next time he looks up from the patterned carpet he sees Russell descending the staircase.
"I'll call you when I get word," he says before he slips his phone into the pocket of his pants.
He walks to the stairs, and— "Mr. Jackson?" He mutters as he walks down the last step.
"What?" He mumbles, eyes glued to his phone as he walks.
He's a step behind.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
His feet stop, and he looks up from his screen. "Walking back to the Sit Room." He points down the hall with his thumb.
"You know that's not what I meant," he whispers.
"You're Bess's PA, right?" He says as his eyes fall back to his cell phone.
"Yes sir."
And when he begins to walk again, he follows.
"You're giving her recommendations for a therapist one day, and the next you seem to be forgetting the reason why."
He shoots him a glare.
"Sending Henry to Bolivia," he says. "Not to mention the habit of barging into her office."
He looks up. "Sending Henry wasn't my idea," he tells him. "And—" He shrugs. "—I've always barged into her office."
"But you didn't stop it," he says, speaking about Henry.
He stops a few steps outside the door. "Look, I'll do what I can for Bess, but I can't—" He shakes his head. "Henry can't. And you can't protect her from everything," he says. "She has a job to do. She'll be fine."
He thinks he's never sounded more like an asshole.
And when Russell goes to pull the handle on the door, it's already being pushed open.
The face that greets him is blank. She looks pale, and her eyes are glazed over. He thinks the woman he's seeing is no longer Secretary McCord but Elizabeth.
He reaches out for her, hand landing on her lower back. "Let's find some quiet space," he whispers as he eyes Russell.
He didn't think he'd need to make use of the spare bottle of medication so soon, but he knows now that everything he thought he knew was out the window.