It's a stormy but warm night, and the sky is falling - rain splatters on the roof and bounces off, with a sound like thousands of pebbles, each hitting a surface unceremoniously at the same time.
Inside the room though, the sky is about to fall too. Atlas isn't holding the world up for you now; the President was but he's currently on television, explaining how he managed to conceal a degenerative disease from the American public, so you don't think he did a very good job of it. No, you alone have to hold your world up. You all have lifeboats now, sent in by Leo but you'll never use yours. Instead, you think about the past, where everything now has a rosy glow that you miss; you even miss California. The past is all you're permitted to think about - you've been examining your memories for days as you recalled past conversations for Oliver Babish.
Now though, you finally have time to think about Danny, as you stand to one side of the room in which history is being made. You stand to one side; your hair loosely bundled up in a clip, and tap your fingers against the briefing book you carry in one arm.
Your early memories of him are few. You remember the first day that you met him – some campaign stop in Texas, or Alabama, or some other state, with fiery sunshine and dust everywhere – because you fell out of the coach before you were even able to introduce yourself to the cute red haired reporter from the White House Press Corps. You didn't know what paper he was with at the time; it was hard to keep track of them all after your first week in the job, but you smiled crookedly and straightened your skirt, ignoring the faint laughter from behind.
He helped you up, of course, in his gentlemanly way, and somebody else picked up your bag, whilst you gathered up the papers blowing in the dust, skin blushing red. He introduced himself as Danny Concannon, and laughed when you introduced yourself; he told you that everyone knew who you were already, and if they didn't, they were behind in their reporting. You smiled at that, and excused yourself, as you could see Toby waving his arms wildly, almost shouting, with his expression dour. You walked over, and were told of some emergency – you don't remember whether it was the sharp drop in polling numbers that time, or yet another Democrat denouncing Bartlet in an effort to raise their own profile – but you remained focused on that for the day.
You don't remember the any other meetings after that – you had actual work to do, after all, rather than flirt – but you do remember the late night talks with Bartlet. And naturally, you remember Election Day.
On that day you'd been hyperactive: pacing around headquarters, in between briefing the press and playing garbage can basketball with the guys and you were desperate for some coffee. Miraculously, you were able to sneak out for the real stuff; an espresso roast from Starbuck (which, although it's the soul sucker of corporate America, produces damn fine coffee) with a bagel to go. He hadn't been there, of course, but that was the best coffee you can remember tasting, after the grey-brown sludge of several months.
The second memory, however, is his. You were standing at the podium in the Democratic headquarters, with your hair pinned back after the end of day, releasing up-to-the-minute information about the election, when he smiled at you from the back of the room where he was transcribing your words. He'd smiled, oh yes, and winked at you. And you stood there, smiling at him too, and there'd been a little something there, when he grabbed your arm during the after party and shouted congratulations, with the noise and music of the people milling around you allowing him to step forward, and then blend back into the crowd as he left to write his article.
You'd wanted him to be there, to celebrate with you, but it didn't matter because you had your guys; Sam, Toby, Josh, Leo and the newly elected President, and the night was suddenly so delightfully perfect, so you let yourself go and danced through the night.
Your memories of the first year involve him a lot more. He became the judge, jury and executioner in the press room - you needed reassurance from him, and you'd look up at him from your notes sometimes, hoping that you wouldn't have to call on him; hoping that he wouldn't notice why you wouldn't, or, if he did, that he would understand. There was a certain bond between you, and he did understand. Some days, when you briefed, he would smile absentmindedly at you and even on the days from hell that never seemed to end he was always there, a steady presence, like the proverbial ray of sunshine.
It was like being a teenager again with him - he bought you a goldfish, which was a lot better than the wilted flowers your boyfriends in high school gave you - and he made you laugh, and that was all that was important. You argued, of course - he called you unprofessional and bush league, and you fought back, and you proved to him that you were in control – you gave stories to the other reporters and he was an outsider until you felt calm enough to let him back in. Funny though, it never seemed like victory. You were more powerful that him in the room, yes, and when you talked people finally listened, but it didn't make you happy. It was a petty win.
You knew why of course – your little crush was getting out of hand, but you were almost over it. Until you kissed him in the first year; exactly a year since Bartlet had come into office and you kissed him like you were fifteen again with your lips tingling and a fizzy feeling in your stomach. It was so utterly nice that you didn't want to stop, until you regained your senses later and remember Leo's words on impropriety: "Whatever happens kid, you serve at the pleasure of the President. That's all that matters".
So you still didn't date- when was the last time you had a real date outside the White House? - and you did wonder if that was the right thing to do, because at night you were lonely, and just once, it would have been nice to have a warm body on the other side of your bed, and you were pretty sure you'd be having good sex too, because honestly, that was Danny, and he's just too ... nice to have bad sex with.
You were actually thinking of Danny when it happened. Strange that you can only think of Rosslyn as 'it'. Your mind has instinctively blanked it out - you recall senses rather than events, and in particular, the smell of medicinal alcohol that permeates in every hospital - and so you can't think about it. That's a blessing though, isn't it? But sometimes, late at night, you curl around your covers as you attempt to chase your nightmares away, and you curse yourself for not remembering. Ignorance is not bliss, and those are the nights that you wake up every hour and enter the Oval deathly tired. In the parts that you can remember, Danny's there. He chased you around the west wing that night as your best friend lay in a hospital bed dying, and you hated him for that! You lashed out at him, and almost swung at him, until he caught you, and you finally collapsed into his arms. He held you for a minute, as your best friend lay dying, and whispered nonsensical platitudes in your ear as one hand stroked the back of your hair.
You didn't cry.
You tried not to, even though the need was there, because minutes after that, you had to brief, and you couldn't show weakness, not even on this devastating night, where it seemed that even the stars had been blotted out. But it was just so comforting to be held; so comforting to know he was there for you, and you didn't let go until it was absolutely necessary. Carol called; you broke apart, and you both left for the press room.
And then he left for England. So he's not here tonight, sitting in his usual seat at the back of the press room. You know he'll be disappointed when he hears about the multiple sclerosis - he'll be disappointed he's not here to cover it! You're not sure how it'll manifest though – a series of short and sharp editorials from across the sea? You certainly hope so, because you don't think you can deal with him in person. You don't even feel excited at the prospect of his return – it's a strong possibility, after all – because you dread what he might think of you.
You were never infallible to him, because no one ever can be, and you know that, but you thought that the President was getting close. You all did. You won an election fairly, didn't you? But on this stormy night, it doesn't matter anymore. You're on damage control only tonight. The President is wrapping up his speech, and you must brief the press. For the first time in over a year you feel physically sick, and so you gulp down some water before stepping up to the stage.
From three thousand miles away, you fervently pray that the British correspondent for the Washington Post isn't watching television tonight, and so doesn't find out. You know it's stupid – the British papers are going to be full of the story tomorrow, and if not, somebody would ring him now – but you hope he won't hear it directly from you; you hope that he doesn't watch the press conference and feel hopelessly betrayed, as you and all of America should be.
It's time. You begin to speak, and stare out in the crowds, each of them calling your name. You're briefly disappointed that he's not out there.
But you begin. Tonight, on this night of all nights, there is no time for romantic dreams. After all, your public awaits.