Author's Note: Because the Don/Sloan dynamic couldn't have just come out of nowhere, right? This is also going to be uploaded on my Tumblr alterocentrist, along with a more detailed author's note.
It started at Columbia University, when she had long hair, and so did he.
She rushed out of the Thomas J Watson Library, buttoning her jacket and stuffing books in her bag at the same time. She had been shin deep in textbooks on game theory when she remembered that she was meeting her parents - who had flown over from Chicago - for dinner that evening. And although they preached the merits of additional study, they also appreciated punctuality.
She had almost walked straight into a guy heading the opposite direction, but he deftly sidestepped - though she still clipped him on the shoulder. Hands on his hips, he reproached her: "Hey, watch it!"
The first thing she noticed was his wide, expressive brown eyes peeking out from the curls of dark hair that were partly covering his face. "I'm so sorry!" she cried. "I'm running late."
"Volume, please." The library's security guard was glaring at them.
The guy sneered at her before turning around and bounding up the stairs, without another word.
She spent so much time replaying and analysing that incident in her head that she was late for dinner.
"You must think I'm a real dick."
Her fork was poised a slice of pie - chocolate pecan, he guessed, since this cafe was famous for it - and there was a tall glass of milkshake not far from her right wrist. "Since you're chatting up girls in cafes, girls you don't even know, then yes, you are a real di-" The words stopped in her throat when she realised who she was speaking to.
He shook his hair out of his eyes and laughed. "Cat got your tongue?" he teased. She glared at him, which amused him even more. "One, you're the only girl I have talked to in this cafe, and it will probably remain that way. Two, I'm not chatting you up. I just recognised you and came to apologise. Three," he frowned, "I don't think I have a three."
She placed a forkful of pie in her mouth and took her time chewing, then washed it down with a sip of her milkshake. "You came to apologise?"
"Yes." He shifted uncomfortably because he felt her watching him intently. "I'm sorry for what happened at the library. It was stupid of me to act that way because it wasn't your fault."
"Apology accepted." Another forkful of pie.
He blinked rapidly. "Wait, that's it? I expected more of a fight."
The reply was much quicker this time. "I don't know what kind of people you've offended before, but I don't like to hold grudges," she said easily. "And having this pie makes my mood inexplicably cheerful, so there's that." She held her left hand out, since the fork remained in her right. "I'm Sloan Sabbith."
He warily took her hand. "Don Keefer, and left-handed handshakes are weird."
"Sorry, pie is priority. I did some really complicated econometrics for four hours this morning and I deserve a break." Sloan shrugged. "Wait, Keefer? You're the guy that does that literature segment on that NPR show on midnight on Monday."
"You listen to that?" Don was surprised. The reason why he - a grad student with not many contacts in the journalism world yet - did a ten-minute midnight segment on a weekly show was because the powers that be at NPR decided that he wouldn't bring in any listeners. "No one talks about books anymore," one of the producers told him, but then they weren't losing any money over him.
"I came across it while pulling an all-nighter. Faithful listener ever since."
"Really?" He put his hands on his hips. "How many of my segments have you listened to?"
Sloan hesitated. "Not including the first time, like, three?"
"How long ago was the first time?"
"Four months ago." She looked down shyly, but then looked up again and laughed. "Maybe not so faithful."
Don laughed too. "Depends on your definition of faith."
"Then I'm a Christmas-Easter Christian," she said. "But hey, good show. It's always interesting, learning about Ayn Rand and whatnot."
"I've never talked about Ayn Rand!"
Sloan was shaking her head. "Good for you. He's boring and frankly, his free market proselytising in the form of novels with 'tortured'," that was in scare quotes, "characters is insulting to people who actually know a little bit about how economics really works."
"She," Don corrected.
"Sorry?"
"Ayn Rand is a she."
Sloan froze. "I read Atlas Shrugged in my freshman year and I thought it was just pseudo-intellectual ruminations by a know-it-all male," she lamented. "I think I need to reevaluate my life." She dramatically stabbed the fork into her pie.
"You're weird." Don shifted uncomfortably. "You go right ahead and do that. I'm gonna go get coffee now."
Sloan chewed the end of her pencil when Don slid into the seat next to her, pulling a laptop and several notebooks out of his satchel. "What are you doing here?" she asked. Thomas J Watson was Columbia's library for business and economics, and Don had told her that he was a student at the School of Journalism.
"WKCR is giving me a fifteen-minute segment to talk about politics once a week," Don explained.
"Like, what politics?"
He rolled his eyes. "National politics, of course. And how the Bush administration is running us into debt with this war we're getting into. So I've been reading the assortment of macroeconomic and finance books available in your hallowed hall," he gestured grandly around the room, "Miss Sabbith."
Sloan, suddenly interested, leaned forward. "Oh, I like war spending," she said. "Or specifically, the impact it has on other areas of the budget, and the flow-on effects on the country. It's all fascinating."
"I've got an idea," said Don. "Why don't you come on the show and talk about it with me? I'll interview you."
"I'm a senior undergrad majoring in economics. I'm not qualified."
"Sure you are." Don waved dismissively. "Come on? I'll never learn enough about this stuff without actual economics students ripping me into shreds, and you're crazy smart so you'll sound qualified."
Sloan sat back in her chair. "I'll take that as a compliment, Don-Don."
"Don't call me that," he snapped. "So, will you come on my show? I can do a pre-interview off the record so we have an idea of what we're going to talk about on air."
"I'm sorely tempted." Of course she was going to go on air, but that was the closest to a yes that Don Keefer would ever get from her about this matter. Even if he called her crazy smart.
Their bottles clinked together. "A toast before we see what the future holds for you," Don declared, before taking a swig of his beer.
"I'll drink to that." Sloan mimicked him.
They sat on the floor of Sloan's apartment, their backs resting against the couch, staring at the envelopes on the coffee table in front of them. Sloan's grad school acceptance letters. "So, which one should we open first? Big one or little one?" asked Don.
"There are only two of them, Don," Sloan told him. "One's an acceptance and one's a rejection."
"You went to pick this up from your mailbox, had a glance at the school logos and so you already know which school you're getting accepted to! Why are we having beer over this then?"
"I like the pomp and circumstance that a good hoppy brew signifies!"
"You're weird."
Sloan smiled. "You told me that the first time we were properly introduced."
"Only because it's true," said Don. "Have you told your parents about it yet?"
"Yeah, they're arriving tomorrow afternoon and we're having a celebratory dinner," she replied. "I would invite you but we'll never hear the end of it from my parents."
Don cocked his head to the side. "Why's that?"
Sloan started to speak in a higher pitched voice. "Oh, honey, if he got a haircut, he'd be a wonderful guy for you!" She switched to a deeper voice. "I agree, pumpkin. And if he knows a bit about economics, we'll get along well." Back to the high-pitched voice. "Didn't you say you and him did radio shows about the federal budget? He's perfect!" The deeper voice: "Great! Let's set a wedding date!"
"Oh wow."
"Yeah, so inviting you to dinner is a no go. They'd put us on the next flight to Vegas to be married by someone dressed up as John Maynard Keynes. And they'd start going on about grandchildren, and how your eyelashes are unusually long and how our babies will have the most adorable curly black hair." Sloan caught herself. "But ew, that means having sex with you."
Coughing awkwardly, Don changed the subject. "Are you going to open a letter or should I do the honours?"
"God, you're so impatient." Sloan picked up the smaller envelope and handed it to him. "You get the reject letter."
"Awesome," said Don. He tore into it without much reverence and pulled the impeccably folded sheet of paper out. "Dear Miss Sabbith, we regret to inform you…" he trailed off. His eyes flicked back to the letterhead. "The Massachusetts Institute of Technology rejected you? Seriously?"
"Their PhD in economics is math-heavy, and my grasp of econometrics probably falls short compared to other applicants," said Sloan.
Don knew that she knew that her math was excellent, but he also knew that Sloan was more interested in economic history than econometrics, so she would have been a weird fit at MIT. "Open yours." He nodded at the big envelope.
Sloan picked it up and opened it carefully. She pulled the letter out and began reading: "Dear Miss Sabbith, we are pleased to inform you…" She looked up and grinned.
Don looked at the logo on the back of the envelope. "Duke University," he said. "You're going to North Carolina for grad school?"
Sloan gave him a funny look. "Well, that's where Duke University is, isn't it?"
"Sloan."
"Yes, I am," said Sloan. "It's a five-year programme."
The air around Don suddenly felt heavy. "North Carolina for five years? I was kinda hoping you'd stay in New York or had gotten into MIT. We could hang out more that way," he said.
"You're staying in New York?" Sloan looked confused. "I thought you had that job in DC lined up."
He did receive a job offer from a radio station in DC, but: "No, I accepted a job here instead."
"Where?"
"ACN. I'll be an associate producer for Will McAvoy's show. The president of the news division offered me the job himself, on recommendation from Mackenzie McHale, the EP that got me the internship there last summer," he told Sloan.
"Mackenzie? The British lady who came by WKCR the night you did another segment on the government budget with me? Loud, flapping hands?" Sloan asked.
Don nodded. "That's the one."
"Wow." Sloan tilted her head back on the couch. "Don-Don on cable news."
He lifted a finger. "It's behind the scenes, and don't call me Don-Don."
Sloan ignored him. "I can turn my TV on, tune into ACN, and see you on the news. It'll be so trippy."
"I'm going to be behind the scenes! You'll see my name in the credits or something."
"Yeah? Donald Keefer?"
"My name isn't Donald."
Sloan raised an eyebrow. "So what's 'Don' short for, then?" she asked.
"It's not short for anything," Don replied. "It's just Don." He rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I have two older sisters with elaborate names. They got lazy when they had me."
"Don Keefer, associate producer at ACN." Sloan smiled. "I like it. It's a good fit." She pulled her phone out. "Well, since we're both getting ahead in life, we should celebrate properly. I'm ordering pan fried potstickers and barbecue pork buns." She jabbed a button on her phone and held it to her ear, waiting for someone to pick up.
"Wait, you're ordering Chinese food that isn't sweet and sour pork and vegetable fried rice?"
Sloan glared at him. "If I had it my way we're going to have sushi, but you hate any sign of raw fish in close proximity, so we're having Chinese street food instead. I got into Duke, so deal with it."
"Fine," Don relented. A thought came to him. He put his beer bottle down, stood up, and shrugged into his jacket.
Sloan hurriedly finished ordering and hung up. "Where are you going?" she called after him. "Do you really hate Chinese food that much?"
"I'll be back, promise," said Don. He stepped out the door and rushed to the elevators.
When he returned around an hour later, Sloan was unpacking the still steaming food out of the containers and onto plates. "Where did you go?" she asked him.
Don walked over to her and set a box down. "You said we should celebrate, so I got this." He opened it. "Chocolate pecan pie. Your favourite, right?"
Sloan gasped and threw her arms around him. "My parent's reservation at Del Posto has nothing on this."
They sat at the table and helped themselves to the potstickers and pork buns. "Hey," said Don. "We're going to keep in touch, right? When you go to Duke?" He chewed on his lip. He hated being sentimental.
"Of course we are," Sloan said. "Emails whenever we can? Texting all the time?"
"Sounds good to me."
To make it in Wall Street, one must learn how to play a prep school sport at an acceptable level. Sloan chose to start playing tennis. She took up swimming in her Chicago prep school, but that didn't work in her new world. You couldn't make business deals when you were underwater. Even if you had two doctorates.
Her opponent - a tenacious blonde with a Wharton MBA - excused herself to get orange juice from the country club's kitchen. The woman had a near encyclopedic knowledge of finance, but she was a mediocre tennis player. So mediocre that Sloan had to let her lose just so she could close the deal.
She was taking a long drag from her water bottle when someone behind her drawled, "Sloan Sabbith. I never thought I'd see the day." She turned around to face Don Keefer, equally sweaty in his black shorts and loose-fitting blue polo shirt, his fingers curled casually around a racket handle. His hair was shorter than it was when they were at Columbia, but since he had clearly been running around, some curls flopped over his forehead.
"Don!" she exclaimed cheerfully, giving him a hug. "I'm sorry, moving back to New York was busier than I expected. I've been here three weeks and I haven't even had a day off yet."
"Yet here you are, playing tennis," he remarked dryly.
"It's for work," she told him. "I'm wooing a client."
"Ah, the grind of the bourgeois," he said, smirking.
"Oh, shut up, you work for a media conglomerate." Sloan swatted him lightly on the arm. "Are you here for business or for pleasure?"
"Pleasure," said Don. "And business. My buddy is visiting from California. He's doing press for a GOP politician, and he wanted some tips from someone who works in the press. That's where I come in."
"Selling secrets to the Republicans?"
"Well, he's also lobbying to get a patsy interview for his candidate with Will McAvoy, but after what he said about the Bush administration's fiscal irresponsibility, Will's trying to get his approval ratings back up so he'll agree to anything that'll make the GOP look good, so I don't know why we're even playing, to be honest."
"You're still an associate producer?"
"Yeah, still doing the hard yards, but at least I don't have to watch the desk anymore. I'm the EP's little shadow in the control room. It's good fun." Don laughed. "And I think I'm up for a promotion soon. It has been five years, after all. If not, I'll ask for one. So, Wall Street, huh?"
"Doing the hard yards, too. Can you believe it?" Sloan flapped her hands aimlessly. "And I have to take the bus back to the city after this. I don't have a car."
A man walked up behind Don. "Hey, you ready for another game?"
Don jerked his thumb at him. "I gotta go," he told Sloan. "Call me, we should do lunch or dinner or something."
"Or something," repeated Sloan. "But yeah, I definitely will."
When she got on the bus later that afternoon, she was surprised to see Don sitting in it.
"I don't have a car either, so I saved you a seat."
Don fidgeted with the wristband of his watch. "Uhm, I like your haircut," he told Sloan. The bob - a huge contrast from the long, relatively shapeless hair she had at Columbia - was a refreshing change. "It's very Wall Street."
"Okay, this is weird." Sloan was examining his face. "We never go out to eat. We usually buy takeout and go to my apartment and watch funny cats on YouTube."
Don suggested going for dinner at an upmarket Thai restaurant on the Upper West Side, and he knew that Sloan had to be confused. She had greasy pizza and dubious curry with him, and now he's taking her with a place with actual silverware? She knew something was up.
He laced his fingers together on top of the table. "I have a proposition."
Sloan stopped fussing with the napkin on her lap for one second. "Shit."
"Oh no, it's nothing bad," said Don. "But how would you like to be an anchor for ACN's Market Roundup at four in the afternoon on weekdays?"
Sloan's jaw dropped. "You're asking me to work on TV."
"Yes, I am," said Don. "I'm sorry. I eavesdropped on a conversation between Will and Charlie, because Charlie was asking if Will knew anyone who would be good to anchor the Market Roundup. I told them that I know of someone with two doctorates in economics, and has experience in talking about economics in a journalistic manner, and that this someone comes from a long line of economists." He said this all in one breath.
"A long line? Don!" Sloan's eyes were wide in exasperation. "Only my father is an economist. I'm a second generation economist."
Don shook his head apologetically. "I know, I know," he said. "Anyway, they were kind of annoyed that I was eavesdropping so they told me to take you to dinner, suggest the idea, and then if you say yes, take you to meet them so they can see if you're right for the job. Please say yes. Even if they say no to you in the end."
"You took me out to a nice dinner so you wouldn't look stupid for your bosses?" Sloan demanded.
"Does it really sound that bad?"
"Yes, it does. Jesus Christ, Don!" Sloan exhaled. "I hope you're paying for this dinner, and I hope your bosses reject me."
Don started to nod, and mentally prepared a grovelling apology, but he stopped. "Wait, you're agreeing to meet them?" he asked.
"I suppose I should, if you'll look stupid turning up empty handed." Sloan's chin was raised in pride. "Besides, if I'm as awesome as you made me sound, then maybe they're intrigued to meet me."
Don felt relief wash over him. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll make it up to you. Order anything you want, then we'll go for your favourite gelato place after. My treat." He didn't tell Sloan he was paying for the dinner using the Atlantis World Media company credit card Charlie had lent him.
Sloan was watching the stock market on her computer screen when there was a light rapping on her door. "Don," she said warily. "Is everything okay?"
Don stepped into her office. "I heard you're doing an economic forecast segment for News Night. That's great exposure. Congratulations."
"I'm not doing it for the exposure. Mackenzie said people would be inclined to watch an economic forecast if it's delivered by someone like me, and it's not because of my extensive knowledge of macroeconomic theory." She frowned. "She said it was because of my legs. Can you believe that?"
"Oh, I know Mac. I'm sure she holds your expertise in the highest esteem."
"Remember when Charlie hired me for Market Roundup three years ago?"
"How could I forget?"
Sloan couldn't keep the bite out of her voice. "We were waiting in his office, then he returns from his liquid lunch, yelling about how he's ready to meet the geek that you brought in, then he stops when he sees me and says, 'You'd look good reporting about the markets in a bikini. You're hired.'"
Don cringed. "Well, if you can't forget that, I hope you won't forget that conversation we had about how Charlie is a crazy idiot that is insecure that a woman who looks like you can outsmart him at fantasy football," he said.
Sloan looked him straight in the eye. "How could I forget?" That was the last proper conversation they had before Mackenzie suddenly resigned to become an embed in Afghanistan. Don was promoted to senior producer, or more appropriately, the referee between Will and the string of poor sods that were hired to be Mackenzie's replacement. His hours racked up to an absurd point that there was virtually no time to sit back and watch cat videos over a beer with his oldest friend. Neither of them acknowledged that they had begun to drift apart.
"It's cool though, you at News Night," said Don. "You can stay on later than you used to after Market Roundup and maybe we'll get to see each other more often."
"Maybe."
Don put his hands on his hips. "Sloan."
She glared at him. "What? I've got work to do." Her eyes returned to her computer screen.
"All right." Don sighed. He started walking towards the door.
"You and Maggie, huh?" she posed the question to his back. "One of Will's APs."
"She was actually his assistant, and even that was an accidental hire," Don turned back to face her and gestured aimlessly, "but what about me and Maggie?"
"She's nice. And she seems to be good for you."
Don raised an eyebrow. "Who told you that we're involved?"
"You just did," Sloan said, smirking. "Don't worry about it, Don. It's like the worst kept secret in the newsroom. Only second to the fact that Will cheated on Mac, and that's why she went to Afghanistan."
"Really now? Did you get that verified or is that hearsay?"
"Don-Don. Who in their right mind would cheat on Mac?"
"Don't call me that," said Don, but he didn't mean it. "I meant me and Maggie. Who verified?"
"I heard rumours from the News Night APs. Then Mackenzie told me that Maggie told her," replied Sloan. "And you're my third source."
"Dammit."
"Hey, go easy on Maggie," said Sloan. "And don't pull a Will. I know you've got a track record with women, but you're better than that."
"Sloan. You and me," he said slowly. "How come I didn't mess us up?"
"What we have can't be taught," Sloan said, shrugging.
Barack Obama was reelected President of the United States. The Democrats held onto the Senate, and the Republicans held onto the House of Representatives. The Congress had more women, more ethnic minorities, and their first female war veterans. And Don Keefer woke up in bed with Sloan Sabbith.
They were in her apartment. Judging by the fact that Don slept in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and Sloan was wearing a Duke t-shirt over yoga pants, then he was sure they didn't have sex. They just slept together after an exhausting, yet jubilant, night.
"What time is it?" Sloan slurred, half-asleep.
Don peeked at her bedside clock. "It's almost two in the afternoon."
Sloan sat up. "Oh god, seriously? We're late for work!"
"I doubt anyone else but Will and Mac are awake. They'll probably get the weekend crew in for today, writing copy for Will as he does the post-election breakdown," said Don. "I wouldn't worry about it. They would have called us in three hours ago if they really needed us."
"Good." She reclined against the pillows. "So, you like post-war economic history, too?"
Don pouted. "I honestly thought I'd be bidding on a dinner and a movie, but then I saw your book and no one was bidding on it, despite the fact that you had touched it, so I got my buddies on it - as long as I won, of course."
"By 'your buddies', you mean your motley crew of fictional characters and your uncanny talent to change your penmanship," said Sloan.
"That uncanny talent means I'm allowed to do this now." Don leaned over and kissed Sloan chastely, but slowly, on the lips.
Sloan's eyes were still shut and a ghost of a smile was on her face when Don pulled away. "Yes, you are very much allowed to do that," she said. She tugged at his shirt, asking for another kiss. When this one ended, she breathed: "Hey, guess what?"
"What?" asked Don.
"We won't be living in Romney's America. The lesser evil won."
Don tenderly tucked some of her hair behind her ear. "Is that a cause to celebrate?"
"Yes, it is." Sloan slid out of bed, opened her wardrobe and started pulling out items of clothing. She disappeared into the bathroom to get changed.
"Sloan? What's going on?" Don called after her.
Sloan returned and stood by her bed, fully dressed for the damp, post-hurricane weather. She picked up Don's phone and handed it to him. "Call our Chinese place for potstickers and barbecue pork buns. They should be delivered here by the time I get back." She zipped her boots up and pushed her arms through the sleeves of her peacoat.
"Where are you headed?" Don had to ask, even though the smile on his face told her that he already knew the answer.
"I'm going to get chocolate pecan pie."