Original A/N: Hey friends! So I normally don't like writing huge moments in this series (as you can tell, most of these are snapshots of little-but-important-moments), but this snowballed from a bromantic Don and Elliot ring-shopping trip into the proposal, which I hope I gave some justice too. And it has Will mocking Don, which is always fun. And a little post-P3-13ish behavior between Don and Sloan. And, did I mention, a proposal?
This makes a lot more sense if you've also read the third oneshot in this series, which has everything from Sloan's POV. I'm sorry it's so long, but hopefully it lives up to what you hoped for! Would love to hear thoughts. ~Jo
I may not always love you
But long as there are starts above you
You never need to doubt it
I'll make you so sure about it
-the Beach Boy, "God Only Knows"
Don pops his head into Elliot's office. "Got a sec?" he asks.
"Sure," Elliot says. "What's up?"
"Here's the thing," Don starts. "Wait. You know what? Never mind."
"What?"
"It's nothing?"
"Are you ok?"
"Peachy."
"Because you look like you're about to shit your pants. And then curl up into a fetal position. And possibly vomit."
"I can't look that bad."
"However bad you think you look, multiply it by about six thousand, and then we're talking. You need to find your cha."
Don glares at him. "What are you up to this weekend?"
Elliot shrugs. "Ava's got a soccer game on Sunday."
"Ok. Great. You're busy. Thanks!"
"Don, fucking tell me what's up or I'm going to get Sloan in here. I'm not a patient man, Keefer."
"Nooooooo, you can't get Sloan in here."
"I swear to God Don —" Elliot starts, his voice escalating.
"I have an appointment at Cartier tomorrow and I don't know what I am looking for," Don says, his words in a rush.
Elliot raises his eyebrows. "Wow."
"Yeah."
"Whoa."
"Basically said that already."
"This is big."
"Little bit."
"Congrats."
"I get it, alright?"
"You think she'll say yes?"
"I figured I'd drop a ridiculous amount of money on this thing and then turn around three times and spit," Don says. "We've discussed it. A ... little bit. It's been discussed."
"You've discussed this," Elliot raises an eyebrow.
"You know, generally. We had this talk, about it, in May, and now I do this thing, where I ask her every day."
"You what?"
"As a — as a thing. It's more of an 'I want to marry you whenever you want to marry me' thing," he explains, pacing. This is incredibly hard to discuss while still sounding manly. "It's our thing."
"You've been asking her to marry you without a ring? Dude," Elliot shakes his head. "You don't do that to a woman. Even Sloan. Especially Sloan. You bring your A-game for this. Dinner, ring at the bottom of a glass of champagne, brass bands, maybe some choreography. A speech. For god's sake, at least come up with a speech."
"It's romantic! It's our thing," Don protests. "It started like, I don't know, three months ago. She's got this thing where she doesn't want to move in with anyone until she's engaged —"
"Of course Sabbith doesn't," Elliot shakes his head.
"Anyways. So I ask her to move in with me every day," he says. "I'm actually asking her to marry me when I say that. She knows it. And sometimes she laughs and sometimes she says when I learn how to fold laundry and sometimes she says she needs more time and sometimes she says when Charlie starts going to Alcoholics Anonymous. You know. It's our thing."
"So why are you buying the ring now? Cat's out of the bag, why don't you wait till you seal the deal?"
"Mixed metaphors, Elliot, disappointing," he says.
"I'm serious. You've already goofed on making it a surprise, you're on this weird warpy casual thing, why not just wait till she says yes?"
"It's going to be soon, and I want to be ready," he says.
"Do you have a plan? You know, for when the non-asking gets old."
He shrugs. "I didn't say I had it all worked out and was going to ask tomorrow. Anyways. You gotta come with me. You're the only person I trust that's done this."
"I think that says more about you than me."
"Great. The appointment is at three. And, you know, please don't tell her."
Elliot snorts. "Yes, because I would hate to ruin the surprise of this all."
And so the next day, feeling slightly like a fraud, Don meets Elliot at Cartier's Fifth Ave flagship. He's got Sloan's high school class ring, which he swiped from her jewelry box last week, in one pocket, his AmEx card in the other, and is practically vibrating with nerves.
"This is it," Elliot says as they walk in. "Biggest purchase of your life."
"Yup. It is."
"Well, until you buy a house, or pay for your kids' college tuition. Or elementary school tuition, even. Do you think you guys will stay in the city? You seem like the type. Have you talked about kids? What about private school?"
"Not helping, Elliot."
"Do you know what you're looking for?"
He turns. "A ring, Elliot."
"No, I mean, cushion cut or marquis cut, gold or platinum, the little pave diamonds or no."
He stops. "Oh my god. I have no idea." He's so flustered he forgets to mock Elliot.
"What has she said?"
"About what?"
"About what type of ring she wants?"
"Why would I ask her? It's a surprise."
Elliot stares. "You have to ask her what type of ring she wants."
"It's a surprise!"
"Oh my god. We're going into a diamond store ready to drop two or three months' worth of your salary based on your gut."
"Hey. I have good taste." Elliot starts laughing. "Oh, come on. Give me a little credit."
"Uh, we're ring shopping with no idea of what you want in Cartier. You have sucker tattooed on your forehead. They are going to rob you blind and make you to beg for the privilege."
"Hi, I have an appointment," he says to the first attendant he sees, before he loses it. "Uh, Don, Don Keefer. For, you know …"
"Engagement rings?" the unimpressed, nattily dressed clerk asks. "Yes, I can tell." He signals to a woman, who strolls over. "Anna, it's your three o'clock. Don Keefer?"
Anna is tiny, older, and probably Russian. "Wonderful to meet you," she says, with a smile that signals it's anything but. "You are looking for an engagement ring, yes?"
"Yes. For my girlfriend," he says. "This is … he's a friend."
"Naturally," Anna smiles. "Come. This way." She leads them to a narrow mahogany desk with a glass top and two plush green chairs. He sits down gingerly and Elliot lingers awkwardly, leaning his large frame against a wall. "Now, how would you describe your girlfriend? Her personality? Jewelry preferences?"
"Uh, she's awesome. She's, um, she's super-smart, really funny, about five-four, she likes … clothes. And economics journals and pad Thai at midnight. She's classy. Like, really, really classy. And funny. I said funny, right?"
"Alright. What type of jewelry does she wear? Does she wear more gold or platinum, for instance?"
"Uh, she likes both?" he tries. "She doesn't like tons of jewelry. Like, she wears earrings. Tiny ones though. With, you know, little diamonds? And necklaces. And sometimes watches. Those are mostly gold though. And her favorite watch is black." Elliot snickers behind him. "But they're like, smaller watches. Not …you know," he gestures helplessly.
Anna purses her lips. "Why don't I bring out a few trays and you can tell me what you think she might like?"
"Yes! I mean, sure. That would be great." Anna nods, and leaves.
Elliot starts laughing. "This is going real well, here."
"How did you pick Jeannie's ring?"
He shrugs. "Easy. She did. We were walking past a jewelry store, and she went look at that one right there third from the left, I like it a lot."
"Ok, you give me crap for telegraphing to Sloan that I want to get married, and you had Jeannie pick out her own fucking ring?"
Anna returns with a tray. "We have a few to start with. Please, tell me what you think of these."
He stares at them. "Definitely not the pointy-style ones or the round ones," he says, pointing to a marquis-cut one and then a round one. "They're … She's not them, you know? She's super-strong, and she's completely feminine, but those are just, I don't know, too girly? Like she's not going to have one of those big ball gowns for a wedding dress. Those are ballgown rings. And nothing too blingy. She's not into a lot of bling."
"Alright, no 'ballgown' rings," Anna says, working her mouth around the words like it's a foreign language or something. "And no bling."
"And, you know what, I like gold. It's different, I know —" he doesn't actually know, but about three-fourths of the rings she's showing him are platinum or white gold, so he figures it is, "but they're way more like Sloan. They're classic. She's super classic. And they're striking, and more unique. That's more her. She's not really trendy, and she doesn't wear a lot of flashy stuff. Like, if you look at a picture of her from now in 20 years, you won't be able to tell what year the photo was in. She'll still look great. I mean, I'll always think she looks great, but, you know. Objectively. She'll look great. She's got, you know, a timeless look." He fully realizes he's rambling, and he completely blames Sloan for that trait. "Can I see more of the square ones? I like that. They look super … strong. She would like those too."
Anna nods. "Square ones that look super strong and are gold and not ballgowny or blingy." She walks off.
He turns to Elliot. "We're getting somewhere!" Elliot rolls his eyes helplessly.
She brings out a smaller tray. All of the rings on it were square-looking and gold. "These over here, that are more rectangular, are called emerald cut. These, which are more square, are called cushion-cut." She looks at him as if he is a very simple child. "Now, would you prefer a setting with pave diamonds?"
"Come again?"
"Tiny diamonds on the outside," she explains, pointing. "No tiny diamonds on the outside," she points to another one.
He scans the trays and zeros in on one. He picks it up carefully. It's an emerald-cut diamond, surrounded by lots of the tiny pave diamonds, with a band that splits into two bands on either side, which inherently looks more supportive. There are more tiny diamonds on the four legs supporting the big diamond. It looks slightly vintage but mostly classic — the band is gold — and delicate and strong all at once, and definitely not like something he's ever seen before. It's not too big or flashy, both of which she would hate. Most importantly, it looks like something Sloan would wear, and love, and be proud of, and that their daughters (if they had them) and granddaughters would want to borrow. He holds it up to Elliot, who sucks in a breath and nods.
"This one," he says.
She picks it up from him. "This is a 3-carat emerald-cut diamond in a split-shank 18-karat rose gold setting, with an additional .75 carats in pave diamonds. The diamond is an impeccable specimen — color grade E, with a very good cut and a very, very slightly included clarity." All of those things mean nothing to him.
"That's a good ring, bro." Elliot says. "You should get it."
He fishes out the class ring. "This is hers, from high school. She still wears it. I figured you could use it for size comparisons. Will this one fit?"
Anna peers at both. "No, it is too big. We can re-size this. It should take about two weeks."
"Two weeks," he sits back.
"Do you need it more quickly, for a special proposal?" she probes.
"No. No, no. I honestly have no idea how I am proposing. Take all the time you need." Anna scribbles a lot of information down, and then takes his Amex, and processes many things, and then reminds him to get the ring added to his insurance — oh, fuck yes, that is happening — and then, excruciatingly, he signs about sixty papers and promises to return in fourteen days. The ring is more than he had budgeted, but he figures that this is the only time he's going to buy one of these, so he's going to say screw it. He walks out in a daze.
"Should I have asked her her opinion? Shit. I should have asked her for her opinion. That was a really expensive mistake."
"Dude," Elliot claps him on his shoulder. "That ring is perfect. But let's get you drunk before you realize just how much money you spent."
"It's four p.m."
"And you're a few years' worth of college tuition poorer. Come on. You handled that mostly on your own. Least I can do is buy you a beer."
They end up at a bar a few blocks away, and Don leans his head back against the red vinyl seat as Elliot tracks down tricks. It feels all swimmy. Maybe he should put it between his knees. Elliot places a beer and a shot of whiskey in front of him. "Drink the whiskey first," Elliot orders.
"Oh my god I just bought an engagement ring," he says, rubbing his face.
"What happened to Mr. 'I'm good, I ask her to marry me every day'?"
"That guy just bought an engagement ring! What do I do with it?"
Elliot slides into the booth, rubbing his own wedding ring with his thumb. "I think you ask her to marry you."
"How did you ask Jeannie? Brass band, ring in a champagne glass, everything, really?"
Elliot laughs. "Well, I had this whole thing planned. We were young — she was still in law school, Christ, and living in the shittiest apartment in New Haven — and since I'd just dropped all the money I had on the ring, I figured, might as well be economical. So I baked a lasagna and I was going to, you know, put the ring on top of the tiramisu, and make this speech, and it was going to be great. But then she got sick and didn't want to leave her apartment, so I thought, great, I'll go over and make everything at her place. But then the ovens were different and the thing burned, and then when I was taking it out of the oven her stupid cat that I hated jumped up on me, so I dropped the damn thing on the floor and she came in because it was loud and we started fighting and there was this big whole mess so we're yelling and she's upset that I wanted to do a big fucking thing since she was sick so I just … proposed," he shrugs. "Got down on my knee in the middle of the spilled lasagna and gave her my speech and everything."
"Whoa, wait. You were giving me shit for asking her to move in with me — which is our thing so therefore awesome — and you proposed with tomato sauce on your knee?"
"I gave a speech and it made her cry. You're doing what, exactly? Asking her to move in with you every day as part of a, what? A thing?"
Don stares. "Maybe, I … we go on a vacation."
"It's July. There's an election in four months. You just went to Costa Rica. When are the two of you going to get the time?"
"We're going to the Republican convention together!"
"It's in Tampa."
"Good point. Uh … horse carriage ride! Central Park!"
"Isn't Sloan allergic?"
"Shit."
Elliot stares. "Ok, let's think about what you're going to say."
Don puts his head down and whimpers.
He's weird all week. Sloan asks him twice, semi-seriously, if he's dying or if they're breaking up. "Uh … no?" he says.
"You sure? If either of those things are happening, some advance warning would be nice," she says, stealing a piece of broccoli out of his container of Thai food.
He can't say anything, so he leans forward and kisses her. "Move in with me?" he asks, because he hasn't said that yet that day.
She smirks and snatches another bite. "After you get better taste in Thai food."
He finally gets a call from Anna informing him that the ring is ready for pickup, and he practically trips into Elliot's office. "What do I do when I get the ring?"
Elliot stares at him, long and hard. "You ask her to marry you."
"Right," he inhales. "Ok."
He cuts out of work when Sloan's on at four, cabbing to the store. "I'm here," he says to the same unimpressed guy up front. "I need to talk to Anna."
"Right this way," the guy says, leading him to the same tiny desk. "Wait here."
Anna comes up and says, "Yes. Mr. Keefer. Hello," she smiles tightly. "We have your ring."
"Can I … see it?"
"Of course. It's yours," she places it in front of him. He pops it open and, dear god, he can hear the angels singing. He blinks at its sparkliness. "Whoa."
"It's a lovely ring," she says, sounding genuine for the first time. "She's a lucky woman. You made a great choice."
He smiles, and wonders wear to put it (his pocket? That seems un-secure), thanks her, and heads out, holding it gingerly. Once he gets back to ACN, he sneaks into Elliot's office and puts the ring on his desk.
"Thanks, but I'm already taken," Elliot says. "Seriously. Why are you putting this here?"
"Where else do you put it?!" Don says.
"That's ... actually a fair question," Elliot says. "Oh — Will has a safe. Put it in Will's office."
"You want me to tell Will about this?"
"Tell me about what?" Will says from behind, because of course.
"Oh dear god my life is ending," Don says as Will enters.
"Don just got a ring for Sloan. Here, look," Elliot tosses it to Will as Don makes a strangled sound he doesn't really recognize. Will catches it ably. "He needs a place to store it for a few days; can he keep it in your safe?"
"I'm … taking it home tonight. I am. I just … could you store it until then?"
Will pops it open and whistles. "Nice job. Cartier?"
"Her dad bought her a necklace from there when she graduated Duke; it's her favorite."
"How are you going to ask her?"
"Yeah. Still working that one out."
"Do you want to keep it in the safe until then?"
"No, I'll take it home. Put it in my sock drawer."
"She'll find it," Will points out.
"Yeah, I don't care."
"You want her to marry you, right?"
"Yeah. We talked this out months ago. She doesn't want a big snazzy proposal with the champagne glasses and the tiramisu and the brass band."
"All women want the romance. And the surprise," Will argues.
Don raises his eyebrow, because if Will thinks he's going to take his romantic advice, he's got to be kidding. "Yeah, you think any of that is her idea of romance?" he asks. "No. We were talking, and I asked her how she saw us getting married. She said she wanted something low-key — we're talking City Hall. We just decide, she said, and then we do it. And I'm there. I'm on board. The ring … this is just so I'm set." He thinks about when he asked Maggie to move in with him, how generic and cheesy and terrible it was. He's not going to do something like that with Sloan. "She knows I'm serious and we both know where this is going. If she finds the ring, what the hell. The ring doesn't change anything about our current state, and if I decide I want to propose right now I don't want to have to come back here and grovel in front of you two and get all … flustered. I want the ring ready to go when we decide to make this official," he shrugs, feeling more confident. "I ask her every day, and I'm serious. When she thinks it's right, it's right. And hell, it could be tomorrow. So I'm taking it home tonight." He nods definitively.
Will turns to Elliot. "Are we supposed to feel proud of young Padawan here?"
Elliot just shakes his head and purses his lips. "No. We are not." Elliot turns back to him. "Let me get this straight. You're just going to put it in your sock drawer, not care if she sees it, then continue to half-assedly ask each day and wait for her answer to change?"
"He looks like he understands women, I would listen," Will adds. Don thinks Will's trying to be funny, but he's not sure. From the looks of it, Elliot isn't either.
"What I'm asking is whether you're sure — sure — that Sloan is on the same page as you with your stoner-kid approach to proposing? That she doesn't think you're, you know, joking?" Elliot says. He cocks his head, because he's pretty sure it's romantic.
"Uh, yes," he says, suddenly not quite sure at all.
"When do you want to marry Sloan?" Will says.
"When?"
"Yeah. You've been dating for eight months, which seems fast—"
"To you," Don points out, because he's feeling petulant, and because they've all had to deal with the Mac-and-Will merry-go-round for years. Low blow, he admits.
Will rolls his eyes. "Fine. You say you've talked about this, so. When do you want to get married? Or engaged? This year? Next year? Two years?"
He nods, processing. "Uh. No. Soon," he nods again. "Soon."
"Ok. So what if your whole 'move in with me' schtick doesn't take in say, two months? What are you going to do then?" Elliot asks, catching Will's drift. "I'm just saying, maybe you should make sure that the whole asking-daily thing is going to pay off soon. Or maybe you need a plan B."
It's food for thought. He elects to walk around with the ring in his pocket, just in case, and because he doesn't trust Will to give him the ring back. He's very happy that Sloan thinks his place is good for the evening, since he honestly had not thought that much about where to hide it at Sloan's.
She waits at Hang Chew's for him to finish, and they head home together. He sneaks into the bedroom and folds the box into a pair of socks, then freaks out and simply sets it under some socks, since a lot of his socks are black and he's worried that he might forget which pair he used.
When he comes out of his bedroom he follows the music to the kitchen. She's at the sink, listening to some of her jazzy stuff on an iPad, doing dishes left over from god knows when. The whole scene — her barefoot, in his kitchen, after midnight, swaying to one of those songs that cuts you deep to the bone — makes him just so goddamn happy. She's in a plain plum T-shirt and black jeans and no makeup and the certainty with which he wants this every night, in this kitchen or in another kitchen they remodel together or next to a dumpster in Times Square, is overwhelming.
He slides behind her, linking his hands around her stomach. She jumps a little, but settles back into him. "Hey," she murmurs, her lips against his neck. "Want to help with the dishes?"
"Mmmm," he demurs, then kisses her temple. "Move in with me," he asks, because he hasn't asked today.
"Can't, the dishes aren't done yet," she teases, but she drops the soapy dish to twist in his arms, sliding her wet hands around his neck. He shudders at their coolness as she kisses him.
"I love you," he says, seriously and suddenly, as they break away.
She grins, that delighted, surprised grin that sometimes he just doesn't get, because of course he loves her. She brings a hand up to his face, thumbs his cheekbone, and says, "I love you too," with a firm, final tone in her voice.
"What's this song?" he asks, as he begins to sway them.
She tilts her head to the side, shoves the heel of her hand into his shoulder lightly. "Are you kidding me?"
"What?"
"I probably play this song about twenty times a week. You don't know its name?"
"It sounds familiar," he says, because it does, but when he listens to music, it's usually either rap, or rock-ier than whatever this is. "It's nice. I like it," he says, because it is nice and he does like it.
"It's Ray LaMontagne," she says, as the song shifts. "I listen to him all the time."
"Well what's this one called?"
She listens for a second. "'Let It Be Me,'" she replies. "It's my second favorite."
"Which one's your favorite?"
She blushes a little. "You'd recognize it — it's got the trumpets. 'You are the Best Thing.'"
He twists, keeping an arm around her, and finds it on her iPad. She's right; he does recognize it. As they're dancing to it, he murmurs, again, "Move in with me."
She pulls back. "That's the second time you asked. You never ask twice."
"I'm serious about it, you know that, right?" he searches her face, and swallows, a little nervously. "This isn't a joke, you know that right?"
"Don," she says, in a hushed voice, stopping dancing. Suddenly, the joyful, open-hearted song feels massively incongruous. "Of course I know it's not a joke," she bites her lip, suddenly nervous, worried that maybe she did something wrong, and scratches at the nape of his neck. "Were you ever just going along with it, were you, because you thought I was … did you think I was joking? Because I'm not. "
"No, I didn't think you were joking," he says quickly. The emphasis on the 'I' is inadvertent, and he cringes. He hopes she doesn't catch the inflection and start interrogating him.
She doesn't, though. "Ok. Because I do. I just …" she stops.
"What?"
"I was going to say, I just want to be sure, but that's wrong, I am sure," she bites her lip and studies him. "I guess maybe ready is a better word? Do you feel ready? We said … Because we said …"
"We said no drama, we said quickly, we said personal," he repeats, "And I still want that."
"Ok. Yes. That's what we said," she repeats. "And I still do too. So maybe it's more I still don't feel like it's quite right? Wait. That sounds worse. I take that back."
"I get it," he says, quickly, trying to re-rail the conversation.
"No you don't," she says quickly. "Please don't lie to me." She gives him a look, and he nods.
"Sorry," he says, since one of their rules is no lying.
"I get it. Look. I love you. I … fully intend on marrying you. When I make a plan, or think about the future, it's with the expectation that you're there too. I think we should get married. I do. And I know you're ready whenever. But do you … want to get married this weekend? Do you want to … be married? Now? Do you think it's time?" Her face is open; her voice is emphatic, trusting, searching. She wants to talk this out.
He thinks for a second, then realizes. "Not if you don't." Part of the fun — and the fear — of this route is the crazy-hopeful-unrealistic expectation that they'll both decide, simultaneously, that it's time. And if she doesn't want to, he doesn't want to.
"Okay. Because it is soon, and what we have is … working and .. I think there's a difference between being ready to get married and wanting to be married. I want to get married to you; but it's just not complicated by some burning, overwhelming need to be so now. I like this, for now. Probably not for too much longer but … I'm not sure I'm ready to be married. And I … there's a difference, there is. So I just need a little," she holds her fingers apart just a miniscule amount, which is comforting, "more time to be there. And I don't think it's hurting anything, that we're not there yet. I like where we —"
"Hey," he says quickly, because he gets it now. "I get it. I meant it, when I said I just wanted to get married at some point. So if you don't want to yet, I don't want to. We're on the same page," he smiles crookedly. "I just wanted to be sure."
"Why were you ever not sure? Did I …"
"No," he interrupts. "I just … A guy puts himself out there, says he wants to marry you, and it becomes a thing, that's cool. But he wants to make sure it's more than just a schtick. That you're clear on how absolutely I want to … I … love you. I want to marry you. I just wanted to make sure it's clear."
She stops, stands up a little straighter. "Crystal," she assures. She pushes herself up on the balls of her feet, wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him deeply. He walks her back to the counter as she starts working his shirt off.
"What about the dishes?" he mutters.
"Damn the dishes," she says, with spirit, as she twists his arms out of his shirt. He hoists her up as she sheds her own shirt and then bra. When he goes for her jeans, though, she pushes him back. "Bedroom," she commands, hopping down and sliding her hands down his stomach to his belt. "I'm freezing." She walks out of her pants, kicking them onto the floor. She means business.
"No complaints here," he mutters as he follows her, ghosting his hands up her ribs and kissing her neck as they walk. She arches her back, moans a little, reaches her fingers behind her to grab his hair. When they get to his room, he spins her around, focuses on her chest, runs his fingers lower as she leans back onto the bed, shucking his pants as she goes.
She pulls him down with her, wiggles deliciously under him. Just as he's moving to get to work, though, she stills, pulling him up by his cheeks, her legs bracing his body. She licks her lips, and her eyes are potent and smoldering and absolutely serious as she suspends his face above her own. "I mean it, you know," she says. "When I say, 'soon.' I mean soon. Like really soon. So get ready, pal."
He wonders fleetingly if she's intuited the ring already — he wouldn't put it past her to have some sort of Spidey sense about expensive investments. But as he stares at her, he sees some doubt, some uncertainty there — she's worried that if she jumps blind he won't be there holding her hand. Which is so far from true. He's so bound up with her, so tethered by his want and his need to her, for all of her, that he recognizes it's probably impossible to disentangle his from hers at this point. He leans down and kisses her briefly, all lips, nothing else. He moves to her eyes, her nose, her jawline, her cheek, even her forehead, peppering her entire face before finally moving back to stare at her. "You jump, I jump," he says simply. "I jump, you jump. For … all of it," he says, it meaning life, meaning the rest of the decisions he ever makes, because that's what he means. "That's where I am. That's where we are, ok? We're here, together."
A few days later, he notices that his sock drawer has been surreptitiously rifled through and scrupulously rearranged. She knows there's a ring. He wonders if she'll say yes as they're lying on the couch that night, her feet in his lap and her eyes lazily half-closed. But she just smiles and says soon. He takes the ring with him when they go to cover the convention together, and asks her to move in again when they're dancing under the balloons after the Journey concert, and she just laughs and says, really soon.
And then Genoa and Benghazi and the world blows up, and neither of them get sleep for days. Mac and Sloan get into some spat, and Mac has to send him to tell Sloan about changes to the rundown. He's standing to the side of the camera, bleary-eyed and wearing the same red sweater he's worn for three days, when he casually shoots off, "Move in with me?" at the end of the conversation, because he can't tell up from down and isn't sure if he's asked even once in the last forty-eight hours.
And she surprises the hell out of him. "Sure. This weekend?"
Fuck. "Yeah?" Is she really absolutely serious? Because … yes.
"Yeah."
The seventy-two papers slide out of his hands. "Oh — ok," he says, and hops up onto the desk to give her a hard kiss, in front of the staff, who must be absolutely confused. The cameraman coughs awkwardly, and he rushes off-camera, but says to hell with everything else swirling around them, and just watches her. Because she is impressive.
As soon as the show is over, he grabs her away by the elbow, and they walk straight to his office. She's practically giggling, though that might be from deliriousness. He pushes her against the wall, quickly, and kisses her, wrapping his arms around her, losing himself in her. He pulls back, leaving their foreheads touching. "You mean it? You absolutely mean it?"
"Yes," she breathes, searching his face like she doesn't quite believe it either. "And I'm serious about this weekend. Let's just do it," she adds.
"Ok. Wow," he runs his hands through his hair. "Ok. Plans. What were the next steps you had? Let's make this happen."
And somehow, they make it happen. There is plenty of skulking around; one upshot to the whole Genoa mess, to everyone being absolutely driven out of their minds with worry and anger, is that nobody notices when she leaves for three hours to pick out a wedding dress, or when he ducks out for 45 minutes to haggle with the restaurant or try on a suit (gray, with a reddish-pink tie, per Sloan's specifications). His mother calls every five minutes to inquire about hotel rooms and what to tell his (uninvited) aunts; her parents arrive in town on Thursday and call him during News Night since they can't get ahold of Sloan, and he does a metaphorical (and nearly literal) tap-dance to keep them from coming up to the studio. On Friday, they finalize the ACN list: Will, Mac, Elliot, Charlie. They tell Charlie together, and he cries, though he pretends not to. Will breaks out Scotch for both of them and calls people at City Hall on their . Elliot gives him such a resounding thump on his back that he's pretty sure he's going to have a bruised back.
The one downside to doing it the low-key way, and waiting to tell everyone until Monday, is that she's not going to wear the ring in public. But he's got a plan for that. She sticks around late to wait for him — even though there are probably a thousand things she should be doing — so they don't arouse suspicion. As they're walking out, hours after everyone else, she muses, "When we walk in those doors again, we'll be married."
"About that," he says, spinning around to face her. "I asked you one question — repeatedly — but I didn't ask you another important question."
She looks confused. "What are you talking about? Is this about the apartments? Kenzie brought that up and I think we should talk about that —"
He kisses her to stop her from talking and then, still holding her hands, drops to one knee. Her expression changes from confusion to laughter, and she says, "Oh, my god, it's raining, get up, you goon," but tears come to the corner of her eyes as she waits for him to speak.
"Sloan Aiko Sabbith," he starts, smiling, "we have gone about this in an admittedly unorthodox fashion," a smile cracks across his face, "but I wouldn't have it happen in any other way. I love you. In a shout-from-the-rooftops, want-to-actually-learn-something-about-economics, paint-a-kitchen-on-a-Saturday, plan-a-wedding-in-four-days, spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you, way. You are the single best thing that has ever happened to me, and you make me want to always just be better. I am the luckiest guy in the world, and want to spend the rest of my life making you feel the way you make me feel on a random Tuesday. So, Sloan," he says, kind of tearing up, but in a manly way, as he grabs the ring box, "will you marry me? Tomorrow?"
"I said yes four months ago and three days ago, and I meant it," she says, squeezing his fingers. "Yes. Of course. Yes. Now get up, you're going to get sick. You're kneeling in a puddle, Don."
He finally — finally — gets to slip the ring on her finger, and it is as perfect as he pictured when he dragged Elliot to Cartier. And the next day? When he marries her? He's just lucky they remembered to call his buddy the photographer. Because otherwise it's a perfect blur.
One thing I really, really loved in 'The West Wing' and wish they did more of in 'The Newsroom' is the bromance. Josh, Sam, and Toby being "collectively, The Men," was awesome. I get all of the reasons why it's not developed as much in 'Newsroom,' but I miss it. Desperately.
So this is my attempt at rectifying that. I find Elliot underutilized, and of all the guys on the show, he is absolutely the one that Don would go to for the ring help. I wanted the snark and, ultimately, the heart that it would bring. I love how much crap Elliot gives him, but then it turns out that he completely botched the proposal as well. And I love crazy-desperate Don getting the snark from Will.
I also really wanted to include an actual, down-on-the-knee proposal from Don's perspective. It wasn't something that would necessarily register as important to Sloan — as far as she is concerned, she got engaged in May — but it's something that Don, as The Guy, would insist on doing. Hence, it's something that Don would highlight in his recollections, but not something that comes up in Sloan's perspective. That's also the reason that the actual wedding ceremony doesn't make it into any of the chapters — that's not one of the twenty-eight most important moments to either of them.
I'm not sure if it's clear, timing-wise, but Don bought the ring within days after getting back from their first vacation to Costa Rica (that's not supposed to be clear now, but it was probably a reveal I made way, way too subtly). So the conversations there, I think, really sealed it for him. And even though he convinced Sloan that marriage was in the future, I do love second-guessing Don. He's one of my (many, many) favorites.
When I initially posted a lot of these, we hadn't figured out when Genoa happened, and the role Benghazi played. So I had to go back and do a bit of ret-conning. I think it ultimately works, but I hope the reasons Sloan didn't really want to get married — and then why she did — are clear. Ultimately, I think it makes a lot more sense when you throw in the impetus of this life-or-death work crisis.