Thanks to all who have been reading, and especially to those who have left reviews! This one is the fluffiest to date (toothachingly so), and also the first I wrote. I've started posting the longer piece that these feed into, thicker than forget, so if you like this you should check that out. It's got considerably less fluff but is still pretty decent, I think. Again, this timeline assumes Don and Sloan started dating in about November or December of 2012, which obviously didn't happen in canon. The other piece 'thicker than forget' (which you should read) assumes that s.2 happen, and takes place about 6-8 years in the future. I consider both to be truth. Ah, the wonders of fanfiction!

Anyways, if you like this, please let me know! I really appreciate it.

It's not sentimental, no no no

She has her grief and care, yeah yeah yeah

But the soft words, they are spoke so gentle, yeah

It makes it easier, easier to bear, yeah

-Otis Redding, "Try a Little Tenderness"

The topic of moving in together is first broached in May, by Kenzie. She's had about three too many cosmos and is watching them argue where to go home to after a night at Hang Chew's — Sloan wants to go to her place because all her clean clothes are there; Don wants to go to his place since it's 12:30 in the morning and his apartment is closer. Kenzie's chin is tucked into the heel of her hand, and her eyes spark back and forth between them as the argument gets increasingly irritable. They are strung out from neverending election coverage, and so close to Memorial Day (she's going down to Don's mom and stepdad's in Cape May, and it's her first time visiting them and she can't pretend it's a little nerve-wracking), and so close to a full-blown argument because they are overtired. So when Kenzie, who's the most overtired of them all, goes, "Oh, just move in together!" Sloan freezes.

"Drink your cosmo, Kenzie," she finally says, as Don splutters. Because he knows — and she knows he knows — her tacit condition for moving in together: A marriage proposal.

It's old-fashioned, she understands, to wait to merge households. But she is kind of old-fashioned, anyways, and she's definitely independent. Plus, it's more difficult, financially and emotionally, to go through a breakup when you're living together. Both she and Don had lived through it already. And while Maggie had just moved all her crap out of Don's place and left in a day (with her strange stopover in Sloan's office), Sloan had had to live in a hotel for three weeks after the breakup with Topher — which meant she had to go back, after it was all over to pick up furniture and supervise wedding-gift return and parse his books from hers.

"Goodness, Sloan, it's more economical," Kenzie drawls, downing the Cosmo.

"It's not, actually," she replies. "We both own our apartments. It's not waiting out one lease and picking the place we mutually hate the least."

"You're a party pooper," Kenzie mutters, beckoning for the waiter. "You logicalize everything. You know, you could get a dog if you moved in together. You can't get a puppy when you're splitting time between two spaces. Somebody around here needs to get a puppy, and you two are my best options." She orders another drink as Sloan signals for the check. "And now you're leaving!"

"Yes, because Don's right, his place is closer, and I'm tired, but I'm going to have to go to my place tomorrow morning to pick up clothes."

"For crying out loud," Don says, just throwing down a fifty to cover their drinks and grabbing his coat. "It's late. The streets will be empty. Let's just take a cab to yours." He's not mad, just tired.

She's too tired to argue too (and she does live really damn far away, but she honestly has nothing left at his place) so she just says, "Thank you," as she shrugs her jacket on. They leave to Mac yelling, "You'll have to talk about it someday!"

He hails a cab and she gets in, quickly telling the cabbie William Street. As Don opens his mouth to speak, she shakes her head and says, "Don't."

"I was going to say, this is probably better anyways, since that ficus you've been battling is probably dead, but yes. Please. Assume the worst."

She feels chastened, so she just reaches over and squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry. It's late, and I'm tired, and I don't want to talk about what Mackenzie just said when I'm tired and probably going to say something stupid."

"I don't think whatever you're going to say is as stupid as you think it is," he says mildly.

She tosses him a wary look, and then says, "Good. Whatever," and shifts unexpectedly to curl into his side.

"Aren't you the one who always gripes about the seatbelts?" he mutters against her temple.

"Seatbelts save 10,000 lives a year," she confirms, but doesn't move.

When they get to her place, they go through their evening routine on autopilot: She boils hot water so she can have tea and he can have cocoa (she's been sworn to secrecy about that), and he waters the plants and empties the load of towels she started last week. Once the chores are done they pad into the bedroom and he flips to the Daily Show. "We're going to have to do my place tomorrow since now I'm the one out of clothes," he says as he tosses his jeans and shirt into the hamper.

"You have something, though, right?" She pulls a plum razorback tank and white lace shorts on, straightening the hem with two fingers.

"Yeah, your favorite flannel shirt," he snorts.

"I hate that shirt," she says, unnecessarily, because she knows exactly which one he is referencing.

He rolls his eyes and pads into bed. "You want to tell me why Mac's comment freaked you out so much?"

She puts down the Journal of Political Economy she's brought for light bedtime reading, and considers huffing, "Not really." She is more mature than that, though. At least when she's speaking out loud. Stretching out on her side and tucking her head onto her elbow, she says, carefully, "Remember what I said when you asked me how to ask Maggie to move in with you?"

"You suggested that I ask, 'Will you marry me,'" he aligns his body to hers. "And then reminded me that if we broke up we'd need to get cartons. Which was true, by the way, so thanks for the head's up."

She smirks at his poor attempt at humor. "So the thing is, I believe that. I think if you're going to commit to someone, you need to think it through."

"I got that," he says, tugging a finger through her hair.

"Ok," she says, struggling to figure out where that leaves her. "So Kenzie's comment threw me a little."

"Ok. Why?" he's got his patient journalist-guy voice on, and his hand trails from her hair over her arm and around her hip.

She gives him a 'duh' look. "Because it — the other it — is not something we've discussed. And I don't know where you stand on either, and I was … worried," she huffs out, because feelings kind of suck sometimes, "that we aren't on the same page. I'm not sure what page I'm on, honestly. I'm not on any page. And I don't want that … condition … on moving in ... to put pressure on you. Because I like where we are. And you tend to flip out under pressure. As do I. And if we're making decisions about … us … in the future, I want to do so clear-headedly." Sloan Sabbith, that is not a word, she scolds herself.

"Ok," he says casually, moving in for a kiss.

"Do you have anything besides 'Ok' to say?" She pulls back.

"I think we are on the same page," he elaborates. "Moving in with Maggie was clearly a colossal mistake, so if you don't want to or don't feel ready, I don't want to push you. Us, I mean. And I knew your feelings on it from the get-go, so this isn't a new thing. I don't need to do the technical move in to feel validated in this relationship."

"It's not that I don't think I'd like to live with you," she says, too quickly. "Or that I don't recognize that yes, it's a little inconvenient to basically be splitting time between two apartments fifty blocks apart."

"So move in with me," he says.

She stares at him. "Did you not understand what I just said?"

"I did," he says.

She's still confused. "I said I didn't want to move in with anyone until I was at least engaged to him."

"And I'm still asking."

"I don't know what you're asking!" He gives her a look that says, you are clearly smarter than this, Sloan Sabbith, and she exclaims, "You were dating Maggie for 18 months and when I suggested that you propose, you moaned because the idea was too overwhelming!"

"You lived with Topher for a year before he proposed," he counters. "Those were different relationships."

She stares at him like he is deluded, because he potentially is, but waits for him to elaborate. "Look, I'm not saying, 'let's get married tomorrow,' or that I have a ring or anything — I don't — but I'm saying — not to me specifically, but why would you get married? Generally."

"Beyond the tax benefits?" she says, and he pinches her hip lightly. In retaliation, she tickles his third rib, which always triggers some reflex, and the teasing does just enough to defuse the situation. Finally she gasps, gathers her breath, and runs a hand down his cheek, contemplating his question. "I guess … I only want to get married once," she says. "So I would want to be … comfortable making that assessment."

"It's not a market prediction," he counters.

"It kind of is," she points out. "In fact, that's exactly what it is."

He rolls his eyes, but scoots closer. "I think you're wrong — I think it's more like picking someone to pick stocks with — but alright. Do you predict that we could break up? Or that we might not be compatible in the long run? Be honest." And he means that, she knows. He's confident but not arrogant, which is her favorite Don.

"No," she breathes, after a second, because that's as long as it takes. She has known him for nearly four years. She knows him. She knows them. She knows her answer. "I don't."

"Ok," he says. "So beyond the one-and-done thing, what else do you consider when you get married? To … a hypothetical anyone."

"Well, I would be doing it for the marriage, and not the wedding," she says. "Not that … Not that Topher was for the wedding, necessarily, but we'd been together for so long, and we'd been living together, so it was kind of … what happened next. There were no reasons why we shouldn't, but not a whole lot of reasons why we should. So I would want to make sure I was getting married because I wanted to be with … that person. That I wanted them to be the first person I saw in the morning and the last person I saw at night. That I could talk to them, and not be afraid of what they were going to say. That person who would be my counsel, and know my secrets, and not be afraid to be honest with me, and that I could trust, to know the not-good parts about me, but also just as the person who witnesses the rest of my life. Who is there for basically everything, big or small. That … I could see raising children with, if we decided to have them."

"You want kids?" he asked, propping his elbow so he was raised a little higher. It was not something that had come up before.

"I mean, not four, and no stupid names," she says quickly, thinking of her own family. "But one or maybe two, with the right person? Yeah." She's never felt that kids were necessary, but she could see them with Don in a way she's never pictured them with anyone else, even Topher. Then, kids were so hypothetical that she had assumed she would have five or six years of marriage to ease into the idea, or make a decision. With Don, she could see a kid. She'd like to see him as a dad. He would probably be good at it, she thinks.

She searches his face, because it's not something they've discussed, and she doesn't know if he thinks he would be a good dad. But he says, "Two sounds like a good number," before a grin cracks across his face.

She kisses him briefly and then asks, "Why you? Why now?" The unspoken — his general unwillingness to commit in the past — lingers between them.

"Because I ... It's not like I want to be married, like that is driving the thought. But I … want to be old with you. Sit on some porch in Florida, listen to you rant about what Congress is doing to fuck up the economy, spoil grandkids, old. I like the sound of that," he says. "I don't have to — I don't have to be anything else with you, and I like that feeling, and I want to argue and flirt and just be with you. And it's different and it's special and I know that. And it's not changing, and I haven't had that before. So if it's now or in four years or ten years, I would like to at some point let our friends and families recognize that. I don't care when, I just want to. You know. At some point."

She leans in to kiss him then, and he quickly rolls over her. She smiles into his kiss, because it feels like they've decided on something. "What kind of wedding would you want?" he asks, kissing languidly down her collarbone. It's one of those makeout sessions that's intimate without necessarily going anywhere, and she arches gently into him.

"Honestly? Nothing huge. We decide to get married on a Tuesday, call all our family and friends on Wednesday and tell them to book flights or drive up, apply for a license Thursday, invite Mac and Will and Elliot and Julia and Charlie on a Friday, and get married at City Hall on a Saturday."

He pulls back to give her the widest grin imaginable, and she realizes she just planned her wedding, and this one is real and going to happen, sooner rather than later, probably. "That sounds perfect," he says, then adds, "Seriously. Whenever you want to. Move in with me."

And that becomes their thing, suddenly. He asks her at least once a day — at breakfast; when she hands him his cocoa at night; bellowed at her retreating back after a quick exchange in the halls; in her ear through the headset when she's filling in for Elliot. Standing in front of a tiny church during a long weekend on Cape May; on their first real vacation to Costa Rica; dancing as balloons fall at the Republican convention. If he doesn't remember to say it once during the day, he murmurs it into her ear as she falls asleep. A box shows up, in his sock drawer, one Thursday toward the end of July. She cracks open the box every so often to stare at it. It's gorgeous, a clear, emerald-cut diamond, three carats encircled by a dozen pave diamonds, from Cartier. It's in a split-shank gold setting, which she instantly infinitely prefers to silver or platinum. It is perfect.

And then on the second Tuesday in September, as they're all exhausted from Benghazi (which is rapidly developing) and Genoa (which is rapidly imploding) and the campaign (which is rapidly going to hell), he's standing by the TelePrompTer during her 4 o'clock show, giving her an update from MacKenzie about that night's broadcast — Kenzie's sent him as a messenger because it means Sloan is right and she knows Sloan will gloat and Mac cannot handle that right now — and she says, "Cool. Tell Kenzie that I'm glad she finally saw the error of her ways."

"Got it," he says, deadpan. "Move in with me?"

And she goes for it. "Sure. This weekend?" They're busier than they've ever been, their world is potential falling apart, and she's running on three hours of sleep, so it seems fitting, somehow.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He's stunned. His papers fall all over. "Oh — ok," he says, and hops up onto the desk to give her a quick, hard kiss, in the 20 seconds she's got. He rushes off camera, and then continues to watch the rest of her show, which he never does. As soon as the show is over, he grabs her away by the elbow, and they walk straight to his office, almost giggling. He pushes her against the wall, quickly, and kisses her. "You mean it? You absolutely mean it?"

"Yes," she breathes. "And I'm serious about this weekend. Let's just do it."

"Ok. Wow," he runs his hands through his hair. "Ok. Plans. What were the next steps you had? Let's make this happen."

And they come up with a list and start making a few phone calls. She calls a friend of a friend at Mark Ingram Atelier, and gets an appointment for Thursday morning. She selects a short, lace Amsale dress with an illusion neckline and low-cut portrait back. It skims close to her body and she would have picked it if they had a year to plan. He calls a contact at City Hall to get the license, and use Will's name to book a private meal at the Central Park Boathouse. One of his friends from college is a photographer and so they call him. They book a suite at the Peninsula for Saturday and Sunday nights for themselves. Wednesday they call his mom and Skype her parents and text her grad-school roommate and G-chat his brother and somehow cajole 25 people into getting themselves to New York's City Hall by 4:30 on Saturday. They sneak out Friday morning to fill out the marriage certificate.

They still haven't told anyone at work — they don't want word getting out. It's not hard to sneak around; between Jerry's firing and the Genoa retraction everyone is harried and busy. She spends all day Wednesday and Thursday frantically booking hotel rooms and tracking down errant guests and making phone calls between shows and is positive they will get made, because she cracks easily under interrogation and Don has a stupid grin on the entire time. On Friday, at 3, she walks into Kenzie's office, and shuts the door. "I have a thing, that I need to tell you," she blurts out.

"Goodness," Kenzie Britishes. She looks exhausted and utterly defeated. "Spit it out, then."

"I was wondering what you have going on tomorrow."

"Well I was hoping for a quiet day. I have a Pilates class at five that I haven't made in about six weeks I might go to. Why. What's up?"

"I'm going to ask you to cancel that, if that's alright."

"Why, Sloan?"

She purses her lips. "You can't tell anyone, what I'm going to tell you, until Sunday. It's embargoed. Embargoed, Kenzie. Em-bar-goed."

"Fine, embargoed, why? Are you and Don getting married?"

Well, damn. That made it easy. "Yeah, actually."

"What?" Mac's jaw goes slack.

"I said yes, actually. Tomorrow. 4:30. City Hall. We have a room reserved at the Boathouse at 7 for a reception."

"Oh, my god."

"Yeah. And remember — you can't tell anyone."

"Shit. Sloan!" Kenzie gets up, and crushes her in a hug. "I called this, you know. I told Will last year that you two should end up together. And he said true love always wins! And he was right. When did he ask? How did he ask?"

"Tuesday."

"What?"

"He asked Tuesday." At her friend's dumbfounded look, she elaborates, "About four months ago, you told us to just move in together —"

"I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised. You were pretty … schwasted, I think, is the term. Anyways, he knew that I didn't want to move in with anyone until I was engaged, and then we started talking about what we would want to do and we kind of …. agreed that this would happen."

"Four months ago?"

"Yes."

"He asked you to marry him four months ago and you didn't say anything in the last, oh, four months!"

"He didn't ask, and I didn't say yes! We just agreed. And every day since — he asks me to move in with him. Because … I don't know, that's like our thing? Since I won't move in with him unless we're engaged, so he asks me to move in instead? It's like the transitive property of marriage proposals. Wait. That sounds dumb when I say it out loud. Actually, most of these parts sound stupid when I say them out loud."

"No. It's amazing. Go on." Kenzie looks absolutely enthralled.

"Fine. So he asks me to move in with him once a day; I say not yet. And then a few weeks ago an engagement ring showed up on his dresser."

"He just put it on his dresser."

"Well. In his sock drawer. But I practically live with him! And he didn't say anything."

"So he just … had this engagement ring? And you didn't say anything? And you didn't tell me?"

"Yes. No. It was his ring. And he asked me to move in with him every day. And so on Tuesday, I was doing the 4 o'clock, and you sent him to tell me something, and then he asked me to move in with him. And I said okay."

"That is the most backwards, most romantic, non-proposal proposal."

"I mean, the end result is the same, right? Marriage?"

"So now you're getting married on Saturday. And where the hell is this ring? I want to see the ring."

"I can't wear a ring when nobody knows we're getting married. And yes. That was part of our plan — do it quickly. We don't really care about the wedding."

"That's so romantic," Mac breaths.

"I would say more 'practical,' but sure," she agrees. "Anyways — one, don't tell anyone. I invited Julia today, and I think he's talked to Elliot already, and we're going to go to Charlie and Will together this evening. But that's it from the office. So don't. Tell. Anyone." She gives her friend her Deadly Serious face.

"Got it," Mac says, smiling because she loves a good secret. "Are you going to tell everyone?"

"Well," she says, because they've talked about it. "We're looking at a two-week honeymoon in the spring. So we figure everyone will catch on by then."

"Oh my god, you're getting married!" Mac exclaims, hugging her, tears in her eyes.

"Another thing," she says, biting her lip and scrutinizing her friend. "Will you be one of our witnesses and sign the certificate? I got to pick one and I'd like you. Don's asking Elliot."

"Oh my god, oh my god," Mac says, and honest to god starts crying outright. "This is so … I'm so. .. Yes. Absolutely. Of course." She hugs her tight. "So where are you guys moving?"

"What?"

"You said it was all about moving in with him. So are you moving into his place or to into your place?"

"Oh," Sloan said. "Fuck. We didn't think through that part." She wrinkles her nose. "Honestly, we should probably just buy a bigger place. And new furniture."

"You two are so dense," Kenzie says, but she's smiling.

Planning a wedding in four days isn't advisable. Plenty goes wrong — she forgets to buy flowers, so they stop the taxi in front of a flower shop and she runs in to pick out a batch of magnolias. And they forgot to think of music too, so Will brings his guitar to play Paul McCartney. But she does get to wear a perfect white dress and a pair of killer Jimmy Choos in front of the 30 people who matter to her, and marry the person that matters most to her. And that's the only thing that really counts.

While I liked Newsroom enough the first several episodes I saw, I didn't really like it until the sixth episode. I liked so many characters on paper, but what I was seeing, while enjoyable, wasn't really gelling.

Until 'Bullies.' Specifically, the casual, honest, upfront intimacy between Don and Sloan: How he touched her wrist to pull her away; the entire 'you were my first and only choice' exchange; the scene with Charlie; and, most importantly, 'You think I'm here to make you feel better?.' All of it spoke to a more interesting, and deeper, show than what I had been watching, and a relationship that was way more layered than the one (Don/Maggie) I had been told to care about.

And then the season finale. That scene. Was. Everything.

What I particularly liked was how Sloan knew exactly what she wanted. She knew when she wanted someone to ask her to move in with them. She wasn't going to fuck around, she wasn't going to dither, and she wasn't going to just fall into anything. She's intentional in a very rare and specific way. That scene, I think, informed my understanding of Sloan more than anything else in the preceding ten episodes. She was confident, articulate, and, while she did things in her own (offbeat) way, she was smart and insightful and it was all sorts of hot. That became my template for writing Sloan in this story.

And Don matches her beat for beat. Throughout the first season, I see Don as someone desperately in need of both an out and an outlet. He's bored and restless and everything kind of falls apart for him, and there's a lot of rage and anger and it gets directed into all sorts of weird places and ways. He's not getting challenged enough, essentially, and it means he's rude and mean to Maggie and Mac and Elliot. And professionally he starts to gain traction throughout the season, but it's not until Sloan comes along with "you never asked me out," that he's able to stay engaged enough in his personal life. He's got a positive outlet; she keeps him on his toes.

Don's a pretty smart guy. He's self-aware — probably too self-aware. He knows that this is as good as it gets for him. So he's got it figured out. He also has Sloan figured out. He knows she doesn't like things sprung on her and she doesn't trust things that move too fast. She needs evidence. So at this point he's been waiting. And he's not looking for an opportunity, necessarily, but when it arises, in the form of a drunk!Mac, he takes it. He's sure. He's ready. So when Sloan's flailing a little, he's there and he's calm and he just … logicalizes it. Sloan's not a person who leans on other people, but he's gentle and straightforward with her, and it's persuasive. She doesn't think she has actual human knowledge, so he walks her into it.

I think the setting is important for their conversation. I tend to place a lot of scenes in bed. They don't have a lot of free time, and they don't have a lot of time together, and they're both people that put up a lot of defenses and masks and subsume their needs and wants and are actually pretty lonely. They're not exactly honest a lot of the time, with themselves or others. So in bed, late at night, under the covers where it's quiet, it's probably as honest and as comfortable as they can ever be. It's a huge contrast to when Don asked Maggie to move in with him, which was all performance: He's in boxers, and she doesn't have makeup on. There's nothing else to look at. There's no box and speech to rehearse into perfection. They're come as they are. They can only be themselves. It's almost frighteningly intimate.

So they're there, in bed, they're having a conversation. It didn't make sense to me that they would have a big proposal. Sloan, as indicated in the season-finale scene, would ever go for a proposal or a major life decision where she's a passive agent. She wants intentionality. She wants partnership. She wants somebody who knows what they want (and totally calls Don on not knowing what he wants). The proposal is less important, she feels, than the the merging of lives. She just wants to keep walking together toward their destination. They're not leap-of-faith people, or grand gesture people, so there is no leaping: Don tried it, and it did not fit at all. It wasn't natural. Sloan knows better than to try. So this is completely logical and even romantic in its practicality, in the way it fits them as people.

But I wanted to tweak that, just a little, at the end of the day. So Sloan gets swept up. The thing she originally cared most about — the practical thing, the moving in, the logical intention — ends up going by the wayside as she plans the wedding, and her subversion of tradition and norms is subverted. She and Don don't think about the apartment conundrum while they're planning. They just get caught up in the important stuff. The actual transition is just a detail.