Crushing Doubts

She will smile, I promise:)

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He's frightened, as the powerlessness overwhelms him, she wheels him in. She sits silently while the leader of your country draws analogies from his daughter's childhoods, ignoring the glazed looks of the short-cut men who feel such behaviour is not suited in this room. But she doesn't care what they think, she knows how he works and she lets him talk until the quiet words 'yes, sir' are spoken with more meaning than anyone but the two of them comprehend.

It's when he quiets down and gets back on track that you feel your resentment towards him and their relationship grow in your chest.

You have no claim on her and since you turned her down she won't look at you. In this room she speaks to your uniform, with professional respect for you title. But the high-tech situation room is the only place she directs her words at you, using the decorated men and backlit maps as shields against your gaze.

You thought it would be easier if she was angry with you, that the distance she puts between you would help your heart to heal. Instead you find yourself break at the emotionless looks and fake smiles.

Since the first time she stepped foot in this room, you've dreaded this day. You knew she'd react, you knew she'd take the responsibility of the thousands of lives you are talking about risking, and place it on her own shoulders.

You'd always hoped that when this day came, you'd be allowed inside, to lift the heavy log off her shoulders and shield her from her own condemnation.

But it's in this moment, as you see her covering the pain in her eyes when you tell her just how many young men and women it would take to serve your cause under gunfire, that you realise she will never let you see her cry again.

You brace yourself for her absence as you close in on an agreement, but it still catches you off guard as she leaves with him the second after he gives his order. It's not how they tend to work; the Commander in Chief gives his order and leaves her to work out his lose threads.

This time she doesn't stay behind, you know it's because of you and it makes you feel sick to your stomach.

You want to call out for her, cry her name so she'll turn and gaze lovingly upon your frame. But you know that if you do call on her, she'll turn with a raised brow and an expecting 'yes.' She'll call you 'commander' and she'll want a professional reason why you called out her name as she was leaving your domain.

You don't have one. You just want her to stay.

So you say nothing, just watch her leave and feel your chest grow numb as she snatches your heart with her.

You bruised her ego and she won't let you forget that.

Instead you make sure someone finds out what kind of overcoats the soldiers would be wearing while sneaking up on enemy youth and making sure their parents get caskets for Christmas. The Commander in Chief wanted to know about the coats, it was the one thing he could wrap his mind around at this stage.

So you find out, knowing he will not care once you tell him. By then he'll have gathered his wits and figured out the situation.

You hate yourself for it, but you can't help but like a man who is so thrown by war he needs to make sure the boys and girls aren't cold while carrying their guns overseas.

When you bring it too him, she is nowhere in sight. You'd hoped she would be, but you know it's easier when she's not.

It's rare, getting a moment alone with the President without her as the shield that protects him from projectile information.

He's frank and candid with you, much more so than he usually is. He's scared and he knows you'll understand. And you know he needs to talk to someone on this side of the matter, because unlike him, you don't have to go back to your family and pretend you know nothing about an upcoming war.

He says its decisions like these that make him wonder if he made the right career choice. You know he wants to say that its secrets like these that make him feel so insufferably alone he wished he'd never taken this turn in his life.

You know this is what he wants to say, because this is how you feel, and he sees it.

So underneath the quiet exchange of understandings, you offer useless words of comfort and reassurance.

When he thanks you, you know it's not for your time and updates, but for the thing he can't put into words.

You walk out of the oddly shaped office, feeling lighter on your feet, but not light enough to avoid colliding with the young man who is much too enraged for his age. You always thought nothing could get him too wound up; Charlie learned to filter his information as the personal aid to the chattiest leader of this country.

But he's close to being cracked open by heavy fumes of anger, and though you wonder what might have lead to this state, you know better than to ask. His muttering is just loud enough for you to hear, and you don't have to wonder who the 'she' is that has put him in this state.

It's worse than you thought. She gets like this; you've seen her snap at people for no other reason than things gone awry in the sit room.

But you know this time it's different as you catch a glimpse of her right hand man slamming his folders much too forcefully onto a nearby desk. He's rarely on the receiving end of her anger, and when he is, he knows better than to let it get to him.

So you use this as pretence for taking the slightly longer path past her office to your destination.

At first glance there is nothing out of the ordinary to catch your attention; her doors are closed, the room is silent, but you do notice an unusual lack of people walking past, as if they've chosen to take a detour not to pass the lion's den.

You decide not to read too much into it. That is until you peak in the door to where her odd redheaded buffer is an ever-present shield against unwanted visitors. At first you cannot see her and you can't understand why it feels so odd to see her desk empty. It's when you notice the brightly-dressed assistant ensconce herself behind the back door that you really start to worry.

"Margret!!" She flinches at the shouting of her name and you worry because she's never before raised a brow at having her name used as a cry of frustration before.

You can hear the firm sounds of shouter's footsteps from inside her closed office and you quickly make your retreat, knowing that your face will be the last one the Chief of Staff would want to see.

As fast as you can without looking like you're in a suspicious hurry, you quickly make your way down to your memos and thought consuming work. You tell yourself she doesn't want you help, that you're not welcome, but your mind refuses to stop searching for options.

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It stays with you the rest of the day. You catch her gaze for a few split seconds over the discussion on missiles. In the immobility of your lips, your eyes cry out your need and she turns, her now glazed eyes focused completely on the man on her right, the man who decides the fate of your soldiers.

You've thrown caution to the wind in your silent communications with her eyes. It's safer to show your longings when you know she will not mirror or acknowledge them. And you wonder how much of a masochist you really are in heart.

The sun has long gone to sleep and the busy voices around you have lessened significantly as you find yourself lacking for anything to do until the sun sets overseas.

You're used to your schedule shifting by time zones; the irony of your life always comes down to how best to use the loss of light to move unnoticed isn't lost on you. And suddenly you're not so surprised at how easy it was at first to let yourself vanish from her bedroom in the shield of the night.

That's why you decide not to go home, but to stay visible and perhaps slightly tipsy next to warm bodies and heating liquor.

You tell yourself you just want to make sure she's gone home first; he will need her at her best tomorrow. They will need her rested, to keep him grounded. You serve at the pleasure of the President, and there will be little pleasure with the peacekeeper in the room agitated from lack of sleep.

You're not really checking on her, you're simply doing your job, making sure the wheels of the machinery will function as strategies of war and death are settled.

Your mantra of self-delusion works as you walk through the hallway, as you hear the sleepy hums of computers left running. It works as you reach her office and see her door slightly ajar, a small ray of light dancing up the opposite wall. She's still in there and you're sure you'll see your briefing books on her desk as you casually but quickly walk by.

It's not only your recent self-induced convictions, but your lower limbs as well that lose function as you hear the soft sound from behind the door.

You know the only reason you're hearing it is because she doesn't know you're listening. You know that the second she sees you it will stop and she will look up and her face will bear no witness to the heart wrenching muffled noises you just heard.

But you still move closer, you know she won't let you in, but you can't bear to hear her cry. It shatters your world, your whole existence, to realise she's hurting.

You feel like a fool, you can't understand how you thought she'd be above feelings like these. She hasn't seen the things you've been through; she hasn't found a way to cope with the guilt and the realisation of what you do.

"CJ…" It's the only thing you can think of to start with. The only thing that doesn't sound like you just dropped in for a chat. You want her to know that it's okay, that you don't judge her for her tears. You show it in your tone, her name being the word of emotion and trust.

"Go away." It wasn't what you expected. No effort to hide her tears, her voice conveying her hurt, not a strained attempt of normalcy as she barely breathed the words.

You choose to follow the emotion of her speech, not the words themselves.

She won't respond to kind words of understanding, it will only make her feel weak, build up her defence. So you walk inside to sit on her couch, not saying a word, watching her from the slight distance you keep.

She's turned away from you, her chair facing the dark glass, slightly fogged by her breath and tainted by the earlier downfall of water outside. It's the outline of her side you see from the one dim light of her shaded light bulb on the little table by your side; the planes of her face become a study in shades of shadows. It's the rolling movement of the salty liquid on her cheeks you see, not the tears themselves.

"They're children." She's not talking to you, you just happen to be sitting in the room she's confiding in. Her voice is tired and raspy, showing signs of a long day and revealing that she was crying long before you got there.

You know you shouldn't be here, shouldn't be comforting her, caring for her, wishing you could wipe the tears from her face. You should be running, fighting for the safety of your sanity and emotional survival.

But again your body betrays you as it stands, slowly making its way to lean against her desk. To your surprise, she doesn't move. She makes no attempt to get away from your sudden closeness and you allow your body to relax ever so slightly. Too much would be disastrous, but being too tense around her would have the same effect.

You can see her better now, the darkness of the complexion just under her eyes, the redness of the same. The fine lines on her face seem damp and you fight against your itching fingers and aching skin that wants to touch it.

"We are asking them to die, and I'm not even sure why." She confesses; her frustration over the situation evident. She knows why, you both do. Only you know what disaster would look like if you didn't send these children to die in the service of your country. It pains you as much as it does her, but you know the need to fight the cause in a different light than she ever will. Sometimes you envy her for not knowing, this isn't one of those times.

"It's the right thing to do." How you settled for your weakest argument surprises you, and apparently her too because she finally looks up at you, her eyes searching for some evidence that there is more to your statement.

"Is it?" It's the first time you've seen it; she really doubts your reasons. It's not just fear and concern as you thought. Her eyes are wider, her gaze pleading as she hopes you are going to justify her own thoughts, put things right in her mind.

"It's the only way." You restate your argument, but she still needs more. "It's the sacrifice we make to prevent mankind from self-destruction." She's heard the reasons; she's read what could happen. And she turns away, a nod of her head in defeat as her mind lines back up to what she knows to be true. She mourns her doubts, and you wish she could keep them; it makes her feel more human. But it will break her and you can't let that happen.

"I know." Her whisper is one of sadness and you cannot stop your hand from resting as a comfort on her shoulder. If you could pluck the hurt from her heart, you would without hesitation.

She stands and you get ready to move from her path, but she catches you off guard and you don't have time to react before her body presses against yours.

It's as if you can finally breathe again when her lips crush against yours and you feel your chest inflate, your body tingle and you hear yourself moan into the kiss as if from a distance.

Her hand buries in your hair and your body arches into her. You don't think. Your body refuses to let you as it does all the decision-making for you. She moulds so perfectly into you, her lips teasing your heart through the hunger of your kiss. It's a desperate search, a quest to quench a dire thirst.

You can't tell if it was the painful jab of your heart or if your body momentarily relented power to your mind, but somehow you've pulled away and you're not sure how it happened.

You don't look at her, afraid of what you'll see. You can't speak; there is nothing you can think of to say.

So you walk out, head bowed down to lessen the weight in your chest. She makes no effort to stop you and you're grateful this time because you've arrogated her tears and you can't stop them from flooding your eyes any longer.

And you can't stop the thoughts from ripping at your heart.

She didn't let you in when you saw her cry; she let you see because she didn't care what you thought of her.

Instead you ripped your own chest open and displayed it to her, and somehow you're sure she didn't even notice.

You don't feel the rain on your way home, nor do you realise you left your coat in her office until the water soaks through the fabric of your suit and trails down your back, and you agnise that you'll never be able to let go of the memory of just how her lips taste.

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Thank you for reading. I will not let her suffer forever, don't worry:)