There's a joke in here somewhere, in him bidding on an Economics book. Don Keefer, who thought buying Facebook stock was a good idea. He winces as he remembers Sloan's reaction to that one.
The thing is, it gets out of hand very quickly. Which in the ACN bullpen is totally unprecedented. She'd been sitting there on the Friday in Hang Chew's, nursing a beer and ranting about Reese's misogyny (a date? Would he have suggested that to Will or Elliot? She can play golf!). He agrees with the sentiment but it takes a Herculaneum effort to stop himself pointing out that actually any number of people would have bid on a date with Sloan Sabbith.
Don knows what people think of her, the brilliant, enigmatic analyst with a fondness for Burberry. But he knows Sloan too, better than anyone out there watching does. There are only so many long nights in the bullpen, so many maudlin conversations at the bar before you understand a person in less of a favourite colour way and more of a knowing that her mother used to feed her cod liver oil way. He knows that Sloan is as comfortable in a ponytail and sweats as she is in a pencil skirt. He knows that she hates martinis and loves a bourbon – it's why Charlie loves her so much. He knows what she looks like eating cold wontons during Senate Hearings as well as crunching down lobster at the Correspondents' Dinner. He knows Chet was her first kiss and as irrational as it is to be jealous over something that happened two decades ago, the knowledge makes him sad. Because someone somewhere really cracked her confidence and if his Ohio hometown hadn't been a world apart from Santa Monica, he wishes he could have had that. The chance to love her from the first, though he doesn't phrase it like that, even in his mind. There's too much subtext in the air for him to even attempt to define what they are. A year's gone by, they're still pretending it was all a joke and he can't help but think that Will and Charlie would kick his ass into next week if they even knew what he was contemplating.
And the thing is, he bids at first to make sure that somebody bids. Because he doesn't want her to feel bad about not being able to sell "Hyperinflation In the Weimar Republic: The Economics of Post WWI Germany", not when Sandy's already kicked her out of her own apartment for two weeks. But it turns out her fandom are well and truly out there and the next thing Don knows, he's in a bidding war with someone he imagines is a frat boy, maybe one of Sloan's students, intent on blowing his allowance. And suddenly it's every man for himself and he barely notices the price hurtling upwards, because he can't tell her, he's nowhere near good enough for her, she'll never reciprocate after he shut her down like an idiot but Genoa and the hurricane and Wall Street have given her a terrible few months and dammit he just wants to see her smile.
And then Don wins. And it takes him about a second to go from euphoric to wondering what he's done. Because it's borderline creepy. Actually for someone whose understanding of Economics could rival Mac's, it's verging on stalkerish. An image of the Wall Street douche, covered in blood, rises up in front of his eyes. And he freaks out, pays the money and hides the book, allowing himself only the briefest of glances at the not quite legible scrawl inside.
On Election Night, as he's doing a final check in the Control Room and trying to get Elliot to OutFox Megyn Kelly, he half hears Neal telling Sloan about it. Or at least about the "thousand dollars" bit and he grins a little because he imagines the news made her happy.
"You forgot," Will tells him later. "Journalists aren't trained to keep secrets."