When he hands her the bottle of beer her mind flashes to the first time she saw his office in a complete mess.

Not one day after they've taken control of the country and his desk is piled high with files, folders, papers - even empty coffee cups - and she shakes her head at him, appalled at how much chaos he's already created, but secretly pleased he can't do things without her.

She sets about tidying things as he lounges back in his chair watching her, teasing that she's obsessed with organization. He tells her there's no point because he'll only mess it up again within a day; threatens to fire her because he can't stand her compulsion to have everything neat and orderly.

She banters back good-naturedly, accusing him of making empty threats because she knows that he loves how she controls his life, and there's no way he'll fire her because he needs her too much; he can't live without her. He nudges the back of her ankle with his foot and says he might not be able to live without her but they're doing wonderful things with cybernetics and he can easily have an obedient android created in her image.

She can't stop laughing as she bends over to snatch at a piece of paper about to fall to the floor; when she pushes his chair out of the way with her hip and leans over him, he grabs her arm, curling his fingers tightly around her wrist. She looks over her shoulder to see him staring at her, his eyes dark and indescribable, and she asks him what's wrong.

He doesn't speak; he just stares at her, his thumb tracing patterns over the skin on the back of her hand as he pulls her down into his lap. She sits willingly, trying not to squash him, and he whispers into her ear that she really shouldn't bend over in front of him because it's giving him inappropriate ideas.

She looks at him, his face so close to hers and asks if he wouldn't mind detailing the ideas so she can decide if they're inappropriate or not. The tickle of his breath on her cheek gives her goose bumps on her arms and he rubs her skin, his hand soft and warm.

He refuses to divulge what he's thinking despite her pleas; tells her she has to use her imagination. When she jokes that her imagination would create something far more indecent than he thinks, he grins and says he doubts very much she could think of anything less than innocent.

Her less than innocent imagination pictures him sweeping the mess on his desk aside with one arm before pushing her down and taking her in a cavemanish way. She's embarrassed of course; afraid he can read her thoughts so she covers up by stabbing a finger against his chest in annoyance.

She brags that she could be just as debauched as anyone and offers him a faux frown, sticking her lower lip out just that little bit because she knows he has trouble resisting her when she does it. He slides one hand up her back, curling his fingers into the hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck and stares at her intently.

That's when it begins.

He discounts the notion with a slow shake of his head and, his voice low and gravely, tells her she could never be anything less than a good girl; that's the way he wants her to stay. She rolls her eyes and says he'd like anyone who brought him food and cleaned up after him but he shakes his head and gives her a sweet smile, denying it.

He tells her she's the best thing that's happened to him in a long time and that he's here - they're all here - in this place, because she helped. He's not sure he could have gone all the way without her backing him up. As he speaks, the hand not against the back of her neck circles her finger, which is still poking into his chest. He pulls it away, links his fingers through hers, and squeezes ever so softly.

She laughs quietly and asks if he's tired, drunk or just insane. He replies that he's quite possibly all three but he means it when he says he likes her just the way she is and he hopes she won't ever lose that wonderfully sweet innocence. She can't stop a ridiculously wide grin from spreading over her face and she ducks her head in embarrassment.

He drops her hand from his to tip her chin towards him. He stares at her and she's mesmerized by his gaze. Eyes so dark and deep. She's never believed the cliche that eyes are the windows to the soul until she's staring into his. She can see him; see his thoughts, see the unspoken desire he's feeling. The intensity of his look is too much though and she breaks away, struggling off his lap, smoothing her skirt, asking in a bright cheerful voice if there's anything more he needs before she goes back to her filing.

He waves her off with a smile; tells her she should go home early because, starting tomorrow, they're going to have to buckle down to the business of making the country a better place. He adds there won't be time for fun and games, no time for anything other than work. His voices cracks over the words, a minute hitch in the sentence, but she picks it up. She knows him so well already.

She leaves the door open when she departs his office and, all afternoon as she flits about arranging her cubicle just so, she catches glimpses of him watching her. She offers him a smile each time and he smiles back. Quick, cheerful, friendly.

But in his eyes she can still see the strength of what she herself feels inside. She doesn't want to; she knows what she feels is inappropriate. For her, for him, for the job, for the White House. She's too young, he's too clever. He's her boss and she owes her salvation to him. What she feels is nothing more than gratitude. What he feels is nothing more than a secretarial fantasy.

She tells herself this so that she can get on with the day, and get on with her life. They have work to do. Serious, important, life changing decisions. Nothing can happen between them. So she pushes it away, deep down, hides it behind a mask. Buries what she feels, buries what she knows he feels. Forgets about it.

As the years pass there are times when his eyes stare at her with that same burning intensity and she finds she almost can't breathe. Some are good times, some are bad, some she wishes she could forget forever, some she hopes she'll always remember. They all get filed away in her mind because she won't think about them while she still works for him.

She moves on: growing, changing, learning. She's more comfortable with herself; aware of her strengths and weaknesses. She knows her capabilities, her talents. Eventually she wonders if it - whatever it was - was ever was really there. Occasionally she catches glimpses of... it; a look, a touch, a spoken word that actually means something beneath the guise of banter, but she can't be sure.

And as she moves on, she moves away. Leaves him behind: mentally, emotionally and finally physically. Whatever they had back then is gone. Crumbled away through the scandal, trauma and heartbreak of everyday life. Desire hidden from fear and finally forgotten from disuse.

But again... his eyes. Dark. Staring. Eyes that, despite being nothing other than little balls of rubbery fluid, would still be reaching out to her and dragging her in. Invisible fingers wrapping around her heart. Hypnotic. It's all she allows herself to hold on to. In the quiet, peaceful solitude she lets her heart remember.

It doesn't matter that there's no future anymore, not that she ever really thought there would be. She doesn't recall if she did anticipate a future with him. Marriage, children, grandchildren. It's all fallen away. She only remembers his eyes. Each look stabbing straight through her soul. Each gaze holding her steady.

It keeps her company after she leaves. She starts to forget other things, despite seeing him regularly. The touch of his hand on her back, the stroke of his fingers along her neck as they sat together. The jokes, the laughter. The screams, rants, and raves. The way he would bounce around when he was victorious, the sullen sulkiness when he wasn't. And the soft little smile he reserved only for her.

Now if he smiles at her when they run in to each other, the smile never reaches his eyes. It's easy to avoid anything personal, easy to forget the intense, hypnotic gazes he had directed at her over the years. Easy to harden herself so she can cope without his presence.

She finds if she doesn't think about him as someone she loves, she doesn't miss him. She only misses those eyes. Dark brown. Staring. Intense. Everything else fades away in the flow of her new life. She has purpose again. Vision, a goal. While he's always there, she's no longer in his life. They're nothing more than political acquaintances.

Were nothing more. Now...?

Tonight she's at another crossroads. She doesn't feel as though she's failed on this campaign as she would have felt seven years ago if Bartlet had lost. She's done her best, given her all. She's proud of her achievements and accomplishments. Proud that she's done it by herself. She feels an extraordinary sense of peaceful calm. Serenity almost, and she smiles.

Tomorrow she'll have decisions to make. Choices. There's time enough to pick her path. Map her future. She might have a bath later, she might not. She might go to bed early, she might have a reason to stay awake. It doesn't matter right now. Right now she has a cold bottle of beer, a soft chair, and the gentle, little smile he's giving her.

And his dark brown eyes. Intense. Staring.

Asking.

She has no reason to look away anymore.