It takes every ounce of will to hold his tongue. Even with Joe escorting him through, he'd had to flash his State Department ID to get past the Club Captain standing in the main hall. His father, after holding the position for a year at their club in New York, had told him a club captain must possess patience, charm, and even a bit of diplomacy— all seemed to be required to handle the whines and complaints from members who believed they knew best. But after their short exchange only moments ago he knew there was nothing diplomatic about that man.

"This way," Joe says, leading him to the right.

The hallway smelt of coffee, bacon, orange juice, and a hint of champagne. The sound of cutlery clanking against ceramic, water glasses clinking, and the jaunty laughter of the patrons fades as they walk further away from the dining room.

He's being led down a set of stairs now, and he can't help but let his eyes wander the walls as they make their way down the long hall. His stare catches on gold framed photographs, mostly black and white. And there's an occasional trophy on a stand, but he knows most of the awards, ribbons, and scorecards are showcased upstairs for the sole purpose of bragging when there were visiting professionals.

They take a right when the carpet runs out, and when his eyes land on Matt he heads straight for the door.

His palm is against the wood when— "Sir." A woman's voice. He thinks she sounds young. "You can't go in there. This is the Ladies Locker Room."

His head turns to the right, and all it takes is one look towards Matt before he waves off the attendant.

"He's fine Lindsey."

He waits a moment for her to comment, but when none comes, he pushes against the door, but— He steps back. She does have a point.

"Is she in there alone?" He asks.

Matt nods. "Been in there almost thirty minutes."

"Okay," he mumbles before stepping through.

It takes him a minute or two to find her on a cushioned bench in between a bay of wooden lockers. She sits head bowed, palms gripping the edge of the bench on either side of her. She's still in her polo and gray skirt. Her spikes still next to her on the bench instead of being tucked away in her bag.

His steps are quiet against the carpet, but he knows she hears him when she glances back over her shoulder.

"Matt called you?" She ducks her head as she bends down to fiddle with her right shoe. She's toeing the boat shoes off a moment later.

He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Yeah."

She hums as she sweeps the Sperrys to the side with her foot.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

She can't seem to take her eyes away from the floor. "For what?" Her voice sounds dry.

He shrugs. "Not being there." He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "I would've punched the guy in the nose," he decides.

"I think Henry's going to kill the guy." She chuckles as she pushes up from the bench. "Well—" She begins as she tugs the hem of her polo out of her skirt. And then she pulls it up over her head. "Lucky for me Matt was coming to deliver a message from Nadine."

He knows. He'd been filled in on the ride over. It had been twenty anxious minutes from the Truman Building to Bethesda.

She lets her shirt drop to the bench before turning her back to him again, this time pulling her sports bra up and over her head. "He stepped in before anything could really happen," she says as she grabs the black bra hanging from the inside hook of her locker. She brings the straps up over her shoulders.

He pulls his hands from his pockets and lets them fall to his sides. "He won't leave you alone here again."

She takes a breath in and— "It's my fault."

He watches as her fingers struggle and he steps up and helps with the clasp.

"It's not," he whispers as his hands leave her back.

"He was drinking," she points out. Her palm rests flat against the paneling of the locker to the left. Her fingertips rest just below the gold-plated number tag. "It's barely even eleven am," she mumbles.

"And it's your fault he's a raging alcoholic who's apparently more than just a little handsy?"

He knew that now. Now, after Nadine had asked for the list of names of who exactly she was meeting from the Foreign Relations Committee. If it was anyone's fault it was theirs, his, for sending her out with a group of three men.

Her hand falls away from the wood and she turns. "He didn't like the way I was out driving him." Her lips tug to the side, and he thinks she may cry but she continues. "He started taking swigs from his flask on five."

He wonders how in the world Carl Macintosh had been re-elected last year.

"Golf was fine," she says. "Breakfast was a bit bitter." She meets his eyes for what he thinks is the first time. "The IAEA inspections with Iran came up, and I stepped out of the dining room and into the bar for a breath of air."

He gets it. He's the one who reminded her to step away when feeling overwhelmed. He just wished that the room wasn't closed until the afternoon.

"He cornered me. Started making comments." Her arms cross over her stomach, covering her skin, almost as if she'd suddenly become self-conscious. "He had his hands around my waist when Matt found me."

"I'm sorry," he breathes. He wishes he could say more.

She ducks her head, hiding her eyes. "I was scared," she admits. "I don't know what would have happened if Nadine hadn't needed to pass along the message from Russell."

She's still a moment before she turns back to the locker, grabbing her blouse. She balls the silk into her left hand, and— "It shouldn't have happened." She shakes her head. "I should've been more aware."

He knows that wasn't the issue here.

"Men shouldn't act as if they're entitled to women's bodies." It's out of his mouth faster than he can think it.

And he can see the way the muscles in her back shudder as she sucks in a breath. Her head falls into her right hand a moment after.

"Hey," he says, stepping towards her. A gentle hand on her shoulder turns her, and when she leans into him, he slowly raises a hand to her back. His palm is cold against her skin. "This won't happen again," he tells her. "Not here." He wished he could promise elsewhere. He wished he could promise he would be by her side all the time.

Her head lifts up, and she raises the hand that isn't gripping her blouse to his arm. "Thank you for coming."

He's searching her eyes now. "Are you sure you're alri—"

"Oh."

He can feel her startle in his arms as his head whips to the right. A red-haired woman stands where the bay of lockers opens up to a sitting area. She hooks her tennis tote bag over her right shoulder before her hands fall to her hips. She gives a smile before her lips form a smirk. "I can come back," she says looking between the pair.

His lips part.

Elizabeth pulls back and his hand falls away. "No, no." She waves the woman off before turning and pulling her blouse over her head. "He was just leaving," she says as she adjusts the front.

He thinks that's his cue. "I'll be waiting outside," he whispers.

She gives a nod as she begins to wiggle out of her skirt.

He flashes the woman a smile as he passes her. And as he weaves his way to the door, he can't help but listen as the woman says, "You know some real gossip can start up from what's said and seen in these locker rooms. You're lucky it was me who walked in just then."

He thinks she sounds like the type to go spreading rumors around her tennis group.

"Oh, yeah?" Elizabeth laughs. "Well, there's nothing to gossip about there. He's a well trusted friend."

He knew the accusations would come up at some point. It was the classic DC MO. Assistant and boss. It bothered him, but he wouldn't let that rattle their friendship.