Chapter Two: Don and Sloan and The Days That Never Came

Date is March 26th, 2018. Georgia is 14 months old, and Don and Sloan have been married for three years.

He notices speckles of changes in her demeanour right away. She doesn't eat as much, doesn't speak as fast, and seems to seldom have the energy to do anything she doesn't have to. He starts noticing changes in her performance a few weeks later. She looks tired on air, her speech is slurred and she seems to struggle with names she's been repeating for the past two decades. But he lets it past him, telling himself that it's okay, she's just tired, she's young and healthy and being a parent is hard on everyone. But as months pass and she struggles with menial tasks and sleeps through Georgia's first birthday, he starts to think that he might be overlooking too many red flags.

"Sloan. Tap your pen once if you're okay to go on," he instructs, knowingly. It's Tuesday night, the day she gets five extra minutes added to her usual ten. But they're seven minutes in, and she looks like she's about ready to faint, so while he doesn't think she's going to take the early leave, he offers it anyway "twice if you need to wrap it up."

When her pen hits the desk for the second time, he's officially worried. So he tells her to wrap it up and call for the break, and when she says "I'm Sloan Sabbith and this is NewsNight" on a RightNow segment and using her maiden name, he nods at Herb and Joey and yanks his headset off.

She's the first thing he sees as he leaves the control room. He scrutinizes her right there, and his absolutely gobsmacked. She's normally a size 6, a 4 when she goes on those crazy green juice fasts, but now she's an astounding 2. The ruby dress she's wearing looks like a Mumu – which makes no sense considering wardrobe took her measurements not two months prior – and her collarbone is absurdly pronounced. And the way she walks. God, the way she walks. Sloan always had that 'do-not-fuck-with-me-you-have-no-idea-what-I-am-capable-of' walk, but now…he's not even sure what she's doing characterizes walking. She's wandering. No, she's straggling, dragging, wayfaring. Her hair is thin and the dark circles under her eyes could be seen from Ganymede. Anyone could think it was because she had an fourteen month old baby at home, but not Don. No, Don knew her so, so much better than that. And he knew something was wrong. He crosses the newsroom as fast as his feet allow him to, and gently places his hand on her arm and leads her to her office. She sits on her chair, without saying a word, and for a second, he wonders if she's clinically shocked.

"Sloan. Sloan, honey, talk to me." He begs, even though the situation doesn't call for that. She eyes him for a moment, eyes glued on his face with the same sombre mien she had on ten minutes ago. She seems to gather all her strength to smile.

"I'm fine. Didn't sleep all too well." She tells him, still motionless "Let's go home."

He wants to argue, wants to tell her she should see a doctor, wants to demand that she tells him what's wrong, but he doesn't. He offers her a hand and leads her downstairs, jumping into the first taxi they find and hoping – praying – she's alright.

He's violently awoken the following morning. Not because Georgia is screaming or needs a diaper change, or because Nusra Front has yet again mutilated little children, but because Sloan bolts out of bed and into the bathroom, holding furniture for support and falling to her knees next to the toilet, right in front of his eyes. It takes another second to hit him. She's tired. Vomiting. She has lost all focus and she's so weak that holding a thirteen kilograms heavy child seems to be an excruciating task. She's airy and her voice is lower, and her frame seems to be ever-shrinking.

He's so shocked that the movement of tossing all his blankets to the side and following Sloan into the bathroom to hold her hair makes him dizzy. He grabs his mobile on the way there, and once he does settle, supporting her back with his body and using one hand to hold her hair and the other to push the buttons on his phone, he calls Will.

"It's four in the fucking morning, Don." Will mumbles, and he can hear Mac grunt "What the fuck do you want?"

"Will, is Mac around?" he asks, and wonders for a second why he didn't just call her mobile.

"Hold on." He says, and Don waits for Mac to pick up the mobile "Hi, Don."

"Mac, I'm sorry to call so early. Is there any way you guys can look after Georgia today? We… we need to solve a problem."

He knows Mac's struggling not to ask what's wrong. But she too, can hear the desperation on his voice, the pain in every syllable.

So she doesn't. Don tells her he's dropping Georgia off in about an hour and clicks off, ignoring Sloan's muffled "I'm fine", "There's no need to do that" and "You're overreacting."

It's all so surreal. He remembers the symptoms all too well, remembers the treatment all too well, but most of all, he remembers just how against her the odds are. But he has to keep moving, because she needs him and Georgia needs him and even though he's absolutely sure, he's no doctor and he knows there are plenty other diseases with the exact same symptoms. If only he were wrong.

Sloan doesn't speak again for the entire duration of the cab ride. She doesn't talk to Will when he takes Georgia's car seat out of the taxi, not to Mac when she takes Georgia into her arms and asks Sloan if she's alright, not when he explains where they're going, who they're going to see or why. She doesn't falter when he tells her he saw it all happen to his father, the same symptoms for the same amount of time and with the same intensity. He tells her her health has been deteriorating for the past six months, tells her the oncologist they're going to see is the best in New York, tells her she's going to be okay, that plenty of people go through the same thing and survive, that she's strong and he'll be there for her. Tells her that he loves her and that everything is going to be alright.

He's also the one who tells her she has leukaemia.