Leaving (I Hate to Go)
"Steve, I'm so glad you followed up on that, because when I said before that we weren't commenting on another country's domestic policy, really I was just playing hard to get."
"CJ-"
"Steve. President Bartlet has absolutely no constitutional jurisdiction over what the Latvian government does or does not do, and what's more, he knows that. So stop bugging me. Talk to their embassy. Go to Latvia, for all I care. I hear Tallinn is lovely this time of year."
"Tallinn's the capital of Estonia, CJ."
"Well, then you're just going to have to go there too."
Danny watches CJ expertly steers his colleagues away from the subject of Russian influence in Latvia, watches the laugh and the banter and the appreciative grin on every face around him –because all of them think this is a lot more fun than writing about US-Russian powerbrokering in the Baltic states- and as he reaches for a pen, his fingers collide with the plane ticket tucked into his pocket.
This is his last White House briefing for a while. Nobody knows, except Katie, who isn't here, who told him point-blank that she had no intention coming and "watching you do this to yourself", who still hasn't forgiven him for making her look for a babysitter for his two year old godson she's going to have to pay, and, he suspects, for falling in love despite her many warnings.
He rubs his temples and breathes a sigh of relief as CJ thanks the press corps and steps off the podium. Casting a final, sweeping look around the room, he clambers out of his fourth row seat –out of shooting range, he once joked when she asked him why he sat so far in the back, and she laughed and promised she'd never shoot him, her smile suddenly downcast- and, straightening his jacket, turns to leave.
He's going to miss this room. His hall of the round table, his stage, or maybe hers. He'll miss the easy companionship with the other reporters, and, god knows he's going to miss her. And that's why he's leaving.
This ought to be easy. He should just… walk away. Through the lobby, where Josh is arguing with his assistant about sandwich toppings and Sam is still being teased about Ainsley Hayes. Both smile at him when they see him, and Jolene, his favorite security guard, greets him and asks him what his plans for the holidays are as he turns towards the door.
Nobody has to know. This ought to be easy.
And it is. He waves a short goodbye to Josh and Sam, chats with Jolene, no, he doesn't have any plans for Thanksgiving yet, no, she shouldn't be worried about having her in-laws at her house this year. He walks out of the White House with a gust of icy December wind, and crosses Lafayette Park, his hands dug deeply in the pockets of his overcoat, walking quickly, purposefully, and refusing to look back. He catches the subway at Farragut to his apartment, and stays only long enough to make himself a sandwich for the plane and pick up his assorted belongings.
A duffle, a suitcase, a carryon. All his bags are packed, he's ready to go, so to speak. But he won't be standing in front of anyone's door, there will be no taxi blowing his horn, no songs sung just for her, no wedding rings brought back to DC. He's taking the bus to Dulles, and if he can help it, he won't be coming back anytime soon.
The bus ride turns out to be a special kind of hell, even though he's got a 500 page biography on John Adams to keep him company. He's packed the book -or two, or four, or, fine, eight- thinking that the more he reads, the harder it will be for his mind to wander, back down H street, across Lafayette Square, past Jolene's friendly smile, through the lobby and the corridor, past a grinning Carol and…
The point is, he's reading.
John Adams was born in Braintree, Massachusetts, on October 30th, 1735. So far, so good.
He finally arrives at Dulles, checks his bags and manages to get through security and find his gate, only to discover that his flight's delayed several hours.
Groaning, he settles down with his book and some coffee, and tries hard to concentrate on the puritan colonies, strong and stubborn stock with a loathing for taxes that would out the Senate Majority to shame. It doesn't really work that well. His plane's delay morphs into cancellation, and check-in agents go around asking for people willing to fly tomorrow in for a voucher, and he starts to wonder if this a sign from God, telling him that he shouldn't be here at all. But then again, it might just as easily be a temptation, to test his resolve. So he stays put, buries his head deeper in his book.
John and Abigail Adams met in 1759, and were married in 1764, five years later. Lucky them.
Four hours later, having eaten his way through most of the gastronomical offerings in walking distance of his gate, he's two-hundred pages into what is clearly an annoyingly written celebration of what a great, trusting goddamn partnership John and Abigail Adams had and in no mood.
This, he decides, is a lousy thing he's doing.
He's been crazy about this woman for longer than he cares to think about. If he's going to walk away, he should at least be a man enough to say good-bye to her, not slink out of town like a beaten dog. With new-found resolve, he takes out his cell-phone and calls her desk.
He chats with Carol for a minute, Carol who adores CJ and is something like the annoyingly upbeat cheerleader of Team Danny, with Katie co-starring as the grumpy but heart-of-gold coach, and Josh as the unwitting accomplice. But Team Danny exists no more.
"Daniel," CJ comes on the line, and he freezes for a second. "You miss my briefing and then you call me to bother me twenty-five minutes later?"
"Sorry, I-"
"Where were you?"
"I'm um- I'm actually at the Airport," he answers, lamely, wishing he had thought about this a little better.
"Really? Where are you headed?"
He sighs. "My sister's in Boston, for a few days. And then Berlin."
"What, New Hampshire? Danny, you do know that the primary isn't for another two years, don't you?" She laughs.
"Not New Hampshire," he corrects, gently, miserably. "Germany."
"What are you doing in Germany?" She asks, plainly confused.
"I've got a fellowship at the American Acadamy. And a teaching gig at the University for a semester."
"For a SEMESTER?" CJ practically shrieks into the receiver. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah, I'm-"
She starts to laugh. "Yeah, okay, you're hilarious. But I'm supposed to be meeting with Josh in like two minutes of you're just calling to mess with me maybe we can do that tomorrow? And possibly in person so I can smack you or something."
"CJ, I'm not kidding."
Her breath catches, and the phone's silent for a second. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." He stares outside the window, watches a plane take flight.
"You're at the airport right now? And you're going to Germany. And you're telling me this WHEN?"
"I'm telling you now," he says, miserably but also, somewhat gleeful that apparently she cares enough about him to sound this genuinely pissed. "Look, CJ, this came up and, I thought-"
"Whatever happened to being a White House reporter?" She snaps. "I don't get it."
"CJ, I can't," he drops his voice, rubs his temples. "Can we please not do this?"
"Not do what?" She shoots back, and he the only thing he hates more than that he's hurting her is that he's actually relieved that he is, that he can. "I'm not doing anything and if we were doing anything, clearly we're not doing it anymore."
God. This sucks. "CJ, I promise you, I never meant to hurt-"
"Who said you were hurting me? I'm not hurt."
"CJ, two weeks ago you stood outside the Oval and basically begged me to take the editor's job so we could do this."
"I didn't beg." She spits the word out like it's something poisonous.
"That's right," Danny agrees, sadly. "You didn't beg. You never would." Before she can retort, he says what he has to say. "Look, CJ. I know you don't want to hear this, but from the moment we met, you've been the only woman that ever mattered. We're both right, and we're both wrong, but I think I need to do this. Leave. Not see you every single day, talk to you, and know that this is as far it's going to go and know that you're right and… I can't do that anymore. Can you accept that?"
He hears her take a small, shallow breath. "I guess. Yeah."
He closes his eyes, his fingers curling around his phone. "Thanks."
"You're coming back, though, right?"
"Yeah," he smiles. "I am." And taking his chances: "And when I do, maybe we can give us a chance- a real one. What do you think?"
"If I say yes, will you get out of that stupid airport?"
"No," he says, sadly. "But I will come back, I promise."
"Okay."
"Okay to me coming back or okay to the other thing?"
"You figure it out, fishboy. I'm not saying it again."
He smiles, and thinks that maybe he's never felt as close to her before. A tinny voice shatters the moment: "Calling all passengers booked on United Flight 156 to Boston, your plane is ready for boarding. Please proceed to Gate 16 immediately."
"They're calling my flight," he mumbles into the phone. "I should-"
"Yeah," CJ sighs. "I guess you should."
"CJ?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget me."
He can almost hear her smile, not a grin, but a bashful, quiet half-smile that makes him be able to guess what she must have looked like in high school, and that makes him fall in love with her even a little more. "I won't. I got Gail to remind me of you."
"Kay." He sighs. "'Bye, CJ."
"'Bye, Daniel."
The connection clicks away before he can say anything more, maybe something like Tell me not to go and I won't, or possibly Tell me that you'll wait for me.
Because, my god, he hates to go.