So, I'll be up front: I'm not totally crazy about this chapter. It's an alt-lens look at "Election Night parts 1 and 2" which was my least favorite episode of the Newsroom, for a lot of reasons, for a lot of plot and some character reasons. One was the ridiculousness of the Jerry-suing-Don lawsuit, because it was unrealistic for a whole host of reasons. Another was the way Genoa got wrapped up and magically disappeared (presumably). But I also felt that if I was going to even be semi-faithful to season 2's second half, I needed to address it at some point. So I wrote this, and it begs, borrows, and steals a lot from that episode - I took what happened and layered the Hearts are Strong timeline over it. So a lot of the dialogue and situations are going to be familiar, and not mine.
What I didn't reuse, though, was the control-room kiss. Because that, quite honestly, was pretty perfect. :)
November
If you had asked Don Keefer in November 2011 what the best day of the year 2012 would be, he would have immediately said election night. Election nights are where boys become men, when legends were born, when you showed up to make it count. Your entire year, as a journalist, as a producer, boiled down to this — eight or ten hours straight, on the air; so many moving parts it would make you dizzy; an outcome you can plan for but not actually predict at all. He fucking thrived on it. Lived for it. The closest word to describe the emotions of an election night was triumphant. Or maybe transcendent. In 2011, he would have predicted it being the best night of his year.
And then, of course, he'd decided sometime around April that he was going to convince Sloan Sabbith to marry him by the end of the year, so election night was promptly demoted to a distant second. Which still would have been awesome — after all, he'd get to share the election night with her. Double the fun. He'd be in Sloan's ear all night, working with Mac and Elliot and Will and everyone else, for Charlie, and it would be awesome (plus, marathon coverage amped both of them up, and he was confident that the sex would be phenomenal that night).
But it could not come at a worse time, quite frankly. Shortly after they sold his apartment, put an offer down on the fucking most perfect condo on Riverside, and had put her place on the market, Sandy had displaced them (her Financial District apartment was fine but the building was not and had no power. Obviously it would delay any fucking sale). They're still on track to buy the new place because Sloan is a stock-market genius, but between living in Charlie's backup Midtown studio and Genoa — that clusterfuck to end all clusters and all fucks — Don has had a few better elections, the promise of hot-married-sex notwithstanding.
And Genoa. Seriously. If he hadn't had Sloan to focus on over the last twelve months, he would guess he'd be a hell of a lot more livid about Jerry Fucking Dantana (as he now refers to the bastard, about whom he can and has said many things, even though he deserves exactly zero of any of their time or attention). As it is, he's just plain furious (and a little sad).
But he's got to temper that with the recognition that it's making Sloan absolutely come fucking apart at the seams with guilt and worry. She feels she (and she alone) should have caught his lies. And now it's spun so completely out of her control that it's driving her insane (It's driving him insane, too, but he tends to redirect or get jackassy whereas she tends to obsess, and as a producer he recognizes that that's distracting for an anchor. Plus, despite the stress, it is a fucking election night, which is six hours. of. live. coverage. Which is inherently amazing, mess swirling around them or no). She's worried that ACN won't recover, that Charlie and Will and Mac will get sued and fired. And because of that, they'll probably both be out of jobs soon.
Because they all talked — him and her and Jim and Neal and Maggie and the rest of the News Night crew — and they all agreed. They would go too. It only makes sense — they vetted and researched and ran a bad story, and this is a consequence they should bear too. But it also means they've gotta figure out a way to pay their shiny new mortgage when their savings run out, and that's his job. Sloan might be the money genius, but crisis management — that's his thing.
"Hey," Sloan says as he enters the makeup room. She's waiting patiently for Bethany as Elliot gets all dolled up.
"Hey," he says, "Looking pretty, Elliot."
"Fuck you," Elliot throws back lightly.
"Are you set?" he asks Sloan, leaning on the makeup counter in front of her chair.
"Of course I'm set," Sloan says, her voice quicker than usual as she scrolls data on her iPad. He knows that she's a fucking pro, but she's also stressed and this is her first presidential election. It's a big night, so he's checking, for personal and professional reasons. Her eyes flick up, just for a moment, and then quickly back down. That's not a good sign.
"Just asking. Water? Coffee? Gummi bears?"
"All of those are at the desk. Sex would be great but my hair's already done and Bethany would get mad," she says archly, to distract him from how nervous she is. He knows she's just pushing back since he's openly concerned, so he decides to play along, disarm her with a wolfish grin.
"Gross, you guys," Elliot says.
Honeymoon phase," he replies.
"You have three minutes if you want to kiss her. I'm serious," Bethany says, and he knows that she is. Bethany has cornered him over messing up Sloan's lipstick before. He leans forward, kisses her lightly. She grabs his elbow to keep him there a second longer.
"You're gonna be great," he says.
"I know," she says back, looking him in the eyes confidently to reassure him before casting them toward the door. "Is there anything new out there? Anything about Will and Mac and Charlie?"
He shakes his head. "Mrs. Lansing still won't accept their resignations." His eyes cast over to the door as Taylor Howard walks in. He doesn't know her, at all, yet, but Mac and Sloan seem to like her, so she's safe. "We still all in agreement?"
"Yup," Elliot frowns.
"Yeah," Sloan says, her eyes dark and anxious again. "Is everyone else still in agreement? They're younger. I'd get it if they weren't."
"Nah, they're solid," he says. "If anything Jim's the most adamant." They were all worried about him, Sloan, and Elliot, the ones with mortgages and families. But everyone's ready to stick to the plan.
"He blames himself," Sloan points out.
"So do you," he says, "even though neither of you should."
"Well, we were the red team—" she cuts in.
"And we did our jobs, and shit blew up because of Jerry Fucking Dantana, Sloan. He doctored the tape. So we'll going to deal with the consequences but for god's sake, babe, please do not take any more of the blame than you should." He winces at the babe. Neither of them like pet names, especially in public. But this is an argument that's getting tired. Fuck, it was tired a month ago.
"I'm only —"
"No. You're not," he says bluntly. He knows that besides a feeling of guilt, worry for Mac and for Will and a fear of letting Charlie down is also there, but she's not going to talk about that right now. Those are even farther out of her realm of control and she's not going to own them now.
"For the record, I completely will share some of that blame with you," she shoots back, snarky hints of levity in her voice. He sighs, because he knows she's mostly worried he opened himself and Elliot up when he shut down the interview, and she does think the red team should have figured it out. "But only part."
"Yeah, yeah, in sickness and in health, Sabbith," he says wryly. "But it'll be fine. If Mrs. Lansing's not accepting their resignations now she's not going to. We'll fight this, together, because he is to fucking blame. Alright?"
"Got it," she says, as Bethany starts on her face. Mac texts him, and he says, "I gotta go. Bethany, can I have a cheek?"
She steps back. "Right side," she orders, and he kisses her lightly.
"You'll knock 'em dead," he says, just to her, before straightening. "Come on, guys. It's election night. Fucking election night!" he pumps his hand above his head, and Sloan gives him a quick, pursed-lip, oh-honey-no head shake. "You got this," he says, as he begins to thumb a response to Mac. He gets another text, from Charlie. When you have a chance, Rebecca Halliday needs to see you.
Why? he texts back.
No idea. Finish your work first. It's a busy night here.
Fuck. Rebecca's actually not too bad, especially for a lawyer, but this doesn't sound like a good sign. And it's not like he's not exceptionally busy tonight or anything. He'll deal with this later.
So he finds Mac, deals with the Decision Desk crap, hides in his office, talks to Maggie about the California bullshit, gives John a deadline that he's going to stick to, powwows with more people, gets ready to go. He's busy.
He forgets about Charlie's text.
He forgets about it, that is, until he walks into his office and sees Rebecca.
"I was just leaving you a note that said I need a minute," she says primly, in that way out-of-place-expensive purple dress. Sloan would be able to tell him how much it's worth, and he would not believe her.
"Am I being sued again?" he jokes, because really. Things could not be worse.
Rebecca gives it to him bluntly. He appreciates that about her. "Yeah. You're going to be named defendant in a separate suit to be filed tomorrow by Jerry Dantana. He's seeking an additional 20 million dollars for tortious interference."
Those are not words that are familiar to him. He waits for an explanation, but there's none forthcoming. "What's happening?" Because it's election night and Sloan is losing her shit on air and holy fucking hell, 20 million would be a lot of money and that's the apartment and college tuition and he kind of can't breathe.
So Rebecca walks him through that. Honestly, he can barely remember this phone call — it was right around the time of the wedding. Yes, he called him a sociopath. Of course he called him a sociopath, because he fucking is. No, he did not actually receive any medical training at the Columbia School of Journalism. Finally, he says, "How much is this going to cost me?" Because maybe it can go away.
"Twenty million if we lose, a couple hundred thousand if we win."
"We don't have a couple hundred thousand," he protests. Because it's true. They have some savings but …
"Do you own your apartment or rent?"
Oh to the fuck to the no. "We're closing on a new place on Friday," he says.
She looks at him with a bit of pity, then shrugs. "Second mortgage. Problem solved."
"You are a race of godless, soulless extortionists," he accuses without rancor.
Her expression shifts to compassion. "You need to talk to your wife."
He slumps back in his chair. Crisis management, his ass, he thinks.
He takes another minute to lay one of his Polish grandmother's curses on Jerry-Fucking-Dantana. Bastard needs to fucking rot.
But then — even though he's got, oh, about a million things to do, he starts googling. Fighting tortious interference. Countersuing. Chances of winning tortious interference. What is a tort? He learns fascinating things about pudding and shower caps.
"What are you doing?" Sloan's terse, irritated voice cuts through the room. "We're kind of in the middle of something here. It's called an election; heard of one?"
He looks up fuzzily. "I thought we threw to D.C.?"
"We're coming back in eight, and Will wants to talk to everyone."
"He does?"
"That's what he said. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Just … figuring something out," he says, clicking out of the Lexis Nexis article on intentional infliction of emotional distress. It definitely sounded promising.
"What's wrong?" she says instantly "You have that face on."
"This is my face. I can't change my face. You married this face."
"Hate to burst your bubble, Violet Beauregarde, but you have a 'something's wrong' face and this is it. Please tell me."
"What's this Will thing?" he says, scooting around her.
"I don't know," she says, "I mean, I'm guessing it's about Genoa. Do you think he found out? Speaking of finding out, what are you not telling me? I'm pretty sure I can invoke wifely privilege on this one."
"Let's get through whatever the fuck Will wants to put us through," he says.
"Don," she says, stopping in her tracks, using that hushed, overwhelmed voice she sometimes uses. "Don. Tell me. Is it serious?"
He sighs. "It's fine. It's about the lawsuit, it's all. Something with my testimony."
Sloan pauses, still in the middle of the hectic newsroom. She's considering him. Considering whether he's telling the truth or not, and he fidgets, slightly annoyed under her gaze. They don't normally hold hands — or anything — at work, especially in the newsroom. In fact, after they'd gotten married, Tess had confessed that she had suspected they had broken up and didn't want to tell people because they were so low-key at work. But she's frozen to the spot, so he takes her hand and gently leads her back to the studio. She accepts this. He's sometimes awed by her faith in him.
"Everybody here?" Will asks brusquely when they arrive. Sloan slides into her seat at the Decision Desk.
"Yes, let's go around the room and let's everyone tell everyone something about ourselves," Mac snipes.
"Do you need to go back to the control room?" Will asks.
"Yes," she says decisively, then daintily picks up her drink and phone and exits.
"I don't know what the hell you guys are thinking of doing, but you're not doing it," Will announces, full of patriarchal bluster, when she's gone. "Last night, Charlie, Mac and I offered our resignations to Mrs. Lansing. She refused to accept them, believing that the right thing to do is to stand by us. Charlie is working hard on Reese to get him to change his mother's mind. The reason — the whole reason — we're trying to resign is to allow the rest of you to continue what we started without the burden of Genoa. Elliot would take my job, Don would take Mac's" — he rolls his eyes, "Sloan would take Elliot's and Jim would be her EP. So I don't want to hear any more rumors about the rest of you resigning. Is that clear?"
"No," Don speaks up. Sloan gives him a look — part shellshock (probably from his duck earlier), part admiration.
"It's not clear?" Will say tensely.
"No, it's clear. We're saying no."
"No to what?"
"If Leona accepts your resignations, we're resigning too," Jim says. He's proud of the kid. He's come a long ways. "Everyone who's involved with Genoa."
"I'm not going to accept that."
"Due respect, if Leona accepts yours you're not going to be in a position —"
"We gave you a bad story," Don interrupts, irritation at the whole damn chain of events curdling up. "It's our responsibility. There are principles of … principle here, and character, and responsibility."
"Who put all this in your head?"
"You did," he replies, almost chirpily, because it's true.
"You expect me to get choked up?" Will asks archly.
Whatever. "Meeting's over," he announces. "Two minutes back." He exchanges a quick look with Sloan before heading out. There are things to do. Chief among them, deal with Dantana.
But the night continues to spiral out of control. Will and Mac leave them high and dry, Elliot and Sloan at the desk and him in the control room, nothing but a terse, "See you in eight minutes," to keep him company. Like eight minutes will prove a fucking point to Leona Lansing. He waits a beat before diving into action, taking that moment to contemplate the ways in which his night could be worse. For instance, he could be dead. That's something. He preps Sloan with something about the damn House races, and she just mutters back, "This is getting out of hand."
"Ahh, don't worry about that now, kay?" he says, mustering joviality, and she shoots him a look through the monitor.
But she repeats, "Copy," and he breathes a little easier.
Watching them, watching his wife, watching his best friend, he realizes — he absolutely does not need WIll and Mac, but his life means a little less without them there. If they go, the rest of them should go too. He had always agreed with the principle of leaving: They had fucked up and deserved to share in the consequences. But now, watching Sloan and Elliot, he realizes that wherever he's go next — whether it's tomorrow or two years or twenty — it's going to mean just a little less than doing this. He doesn't need Mac or Will for professional guidance, hasn't for a long time. But he needs them for moral support, for friendship, for solidarity, for strength. Goddamn, this is exactly all he wants out of life — producing, here, Sloan, by his side. He doesn't need much.
He's going to fight Dantana. And he's going to be the ever-loving shit out of him.
And at that moment he gets angry.
As soon as Mac is back, he returns to his office, ostensibly for a break, and starts googling. Texts Rebecca. She moves scary fast — or she was waiting on him — because she's in front of him in an instant. "I got your text."
Yeah. "I've decided to counter-sue Jerry," he announces, and he feels hot.
"Of course."
"I'm fighting back."
"What are you suing him for?"
Isn't it obvious? "To fight back."
"I meant exactly what are you—"
He's set. "You ready?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I said you ready?"
"Give it to me."
"Intentional infliction of emotional distress." He's proud of this one.
"How do you even know?"
"I Googled it."
"There are four elements. One: He acted intentionally —"
That one's a no brainer, and he's prepped. "By doctoring the tape." Done. Shouldn't it begin and end there, anyways?
"— Two: His conduct was extreme and outrageous."
"He doctored the tape."
"—Three: You suffered distress."
Well, no fucking shit. "I am in extreme distress."
She takes a deep breath. "And four: His act caused your distress."
"He doctored the motherfucking tape, Rebecca."
She's amused. "You sound upset."
"Do I? He doctored the tape and he gets to sue us? I gave him a bad job recommendation 'cause he doctored the tape and he gets to sue me? The people who want tort reform, they got a point."
"Yes."
And he's off, ranting about the irons and the shower caps and pudding, because really, either everyone's a fucking idiot and the world's doomed, or lawyers just think they're all fucking idiots and the world's doomed. "Do we really have to slow down for these people?" he finally concludes.
"Leona's leaving the decision to Reese."
He stills. "I know."
"That's not what you wanted."
He deflates further, takes a seat. "I don't know what I want. I want to keep doing the news. Here. With Elliot for Charlie. Next to Sloan. I want to keep arguing with Mac and Will," he pauses. "I want Dantana to iron his clothes while wearing them." They both laugh a little.
"Can someone please tell me what's going on?"
He jumps up. Fucking fucking-A. "Sloan," he says. She raises her eyebrows and purses her lips expectantly.
Rebecca glides up. "I should go," she says coolly, slinks out the door like a cat.
"You need to tell me what's going on," she says, her arms crossed. "Now, please. Because I have like 90 seconds to get you back to the control room."
"Then we should go."
"Donald Blaine Keefer, I am not leaving until you tell me."
He sighs. "I'm being sued."
"We're all being sued."
"Not all of us. Just me. Jerry's filing a separate suit against me. Tortious interference."
"What contract does he claim you interrupted?" she asks, and he's reminded — fuck — that his wife was raised by a lawyer, and she probably knows a few things.
"He was applying for a job. I got a call for a recommendation from Kickstarter, and I may have called him a sociopath, despite the fact that I have no clinical background with which to make this diagnosis, which is apparently, you know, a problem. I don't really remember the call, since it was right around the time of —"
"Why is this a big deal?" she asks bluntly.
"Because he's suing me. And it's for twenty million dollars. We have an apartment to close on this weekend! Among other life things."
"Did you ask Rebecca to indemnify you?"
"What?"
"This is a tactical move; he's going for you first, but his lawyers probably are going to just start suing everyone individually for leverage. She needs to indemnify you from any harm. You were an ACN employee discharging your duties: If you hadn't told him that and Jerry would've plagiarized, Kickstarter could've sued you and ACN for not warning him that Jerry had a history of flagrantly unethical behavior. You were protecting ACN; they can indemnify you."
"What does that mean?"
"Sign a contract and agree to hold a party — you — harmless, essentially. Hell, your ACN contract might do this already. They would absorb fees and any losses, but they won't lose, since there aren't any witnesses to this call — there aren't are there?"
"No."
"Right. So they won't lose, and it tactically blocks their strategy. You need to request that ACN indemnify you, and the suit will basically go away. A judge would throw this out in ten seconds."
"So we wouldn't have to pay."
"No. Have you listened? ACN will cover it."
"You're sure about this?"
"If they don't, we're suing them."
He kisses her deeply then.
She pulls back. "You need to go produce things." Then a Look crosses her face. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"What?"
"You knew about this before now. You knew about this when I came to get you for McAvoy's last stand. Why did you wait?"
"Why did I wait? Sloan, it's a little busy around here. You're in the middle of a broadcast. I'm in the middle of a broadcast."
"So you were producing me?" she says. "Keeping me calm for a broadcast."
"What?" he gapes. "What? I was … this was not the time."
"You have to tell me things. We're married."
"Right, and I was going to tell you, just, you know … not here. You're on the air, I'm in the middle of production, it's not exactly quiet."
"You were going to tell me eventually?"
"Yes," he says emphatically.
"But after you handled it," she says, like that just proves her point. He suspects that whatever answer he had given, it would have reinforced whatever she's trying to say.
"What?" he asks, clueless.
"You were going to handle it first."
"Well clearly not, since you figured out the indemnification thing."
"You were figuring out a solution," she says.
"I mean … I knew first since someone is suing me? So I was told first?" he's becoming completely confused.
"We're back in 30," Jenna runs by.
"You need to go and be on air and do your job," he says, gesturing to the studio.
"Yeah, yeah. This isn't done, mister."
"Is it ever?" he mutters weakly when she's back in her seat, rolling his eyes heavenward.
As soon as they're through the segment, she says, "Don, I'd like you to flip me off the public channel so that we can have a quick chat."
"Oh, for crying out loud — go talk it out," Mac spits over the headset. "Both of you, just go to Don's office, now." Sloan slides off her stool, obliging and imperious.
"For the record, I'm not —"
"JUST GO," Mac bellows. She's a little tense. As an understatement. "And I want 90 seconds on the gender gap when you get back!"
"Ok, for the record, I'm not sure why you're mad at me, when I think we can all agree this is Jerry fucking Dantana's fault," he rambles as he enters his office. She's standing up, staring at the Sweet Smell of Success poster on his wall. He's always liked that movie.
"I'm mad because you're treating me like an anchor on something where you should clearly be treating me as your wife," she says.
"You think I should have dropped everything, yanked you off the air, pulled you aside, the second I found out about the suit from Rebecca? You think it was that simple? Is that what you're saying, that it was that simple?"
"Yes! That is exactly what I am saying."
"I'm going to have to ask that we agree to disagree then," he says, "Because it's rough out there, Sloan. You're all going to fucking hell in a clown car, and Will's the … clown-in-chief. As the executive producer on the goddamn broadcast, I also need to watch out for the integrity of the show and make sure one of our main anchors doesn't have a fucking meltdown on air. And as your husband, I'm not going to blindside you on one of the most important nights of your career!"
"That would be all well and good if I thought timing was your primary motivation here," she says, her voice a little elevated.
"What the fuck do you think my primary motivation is?" he yells right back.
She pauses, her voice quiet. "To fix this for me. Like how you keep checking up on me."
"What the fuck does that actually even mean?"
She rolls her eyes. "You try and take care of things. You're a producer; I don't think you can help it. Your first instinct is to figure it out and then come to me with a plan and then take care of it. Take care of me." She doesn't mean it in a flattering way.
He sighs, because his desire to fix things is really what most of their arguments boil down to — that and how goddamn stubborn she is sometimes. "Can't we just chalk this up to me being the guy?" he jokes.
"No, that's bullshit. We're in this together, so tough luck, pal. I need to know you'll let me into decisions," she says, biting the bottom of her lip.
"You need to know now?" he asks, gesturing around. "Cause we're kinda in the middle of something here …"
"Yes!" she says. "I'm here, we're married. We need to be able to talk about things."
"Alright, then, do you want to talk about Genoa and why it's affecting you so much?"
She gapes. "It's affecting all of us —"
"Obviously, I just got sued for flying off the handle at this guy. But you're the one who has to be on air, and it's a lot of pressure, and it's upsetting you, and you won't let me help there so —" he gestures, slightly helplessly, "I guess I'm trying to help over here. Yes, there were multiple reasons, one of which was work and another of which was the fact that, yeah, I like to fix things and I like to have a plan, because I'm good at that, I'm good at being the guy with the plan. But you're freaking me out, Sloan, with how much you're freaking out. You're stressing out about enough, I took that off your plate."
"We need you," Jenna says, popping her head in. "Back in 30. Sorry."
"Be right there," Don calls. "We'll talk later," he says, pushing pause the argument and trying to exit.
"Don, wait," Sloan calls, and he turns. She's up against him swiftly, pressing a somewhat out-of-character kiss to his lips. He reciprocates, placing his hand on her hip, drifting into the kiss for a second. "I'm sorry," she apologizes before rushing toward the studio.
The world explodes that night, like a glittering Roman candle searing through their lives, creating a before and an after. MacKenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy. He loves it. Reese decides to save their skins, too, and between all that and Obama winning re-election there's just a hell of a lot of champagne being consumed. Sometime around one a.m., half drunk on either alcohol or emotion, he wanders into his office, intent on finding his missing cell phone. Thankfully, it's on his desk.
"Hey," Sloan calls from the corner. "I'm down here."
He drops his phone. "What are you … What are you doing down here?"
"Just chilling," she says. "Waiting for you," she admits.
"You know, you knew exactly where I was. It wasn't that hard to find me." He crouches, then sits, next to her.
"I wanted some space. And to say I'm sorry," she smiles, takes his hand. "I trust you. And I should've trusted you."
He shrugs as she settles against his shoulder. "I shouldn't've played it off like that initially."
"Forgiven," she says, turning to kiss the dip where his neck meets his collarbone. "We'll be fine." She sounds like she's saying that mostly to herself. "The lawsuit'll get dropped. We'll sign for the apartment on Friday and eventually put my old place on the market, and then we can focus on getting Kenzie and Will down the aisle."
"Yeah, that's not going to be easy," he laughs.
"I just hope at least one person asks her if she's pregnant. It's only fair," Sloan says. "Will did a pretty good job with the proposal, she says."
"As good as I did?"
"Well, he did say the words to her," she laughs. "But no, yours is still my favorite."
He laughs. "Thank you, I appreciate that." She chuckles too, before sighing deeply. "Hey. Do you want to talk about you've been so worried?"
She picks at a lint piece on his jeans. "It's not a new song, you know? I just … got rattled." She wrinkles her nose. "I think it showed on-air."
"If it did," (which it did), "nobody's going to remember tomorrow. And hey, I'm a pretty good listener. If you want to talk."
She smiles. "I feel a lot better now. I mean, I still think I fucked up. That we fucked up. Badly."
"Most of it was Jerry's —"
"I know. I agree. But I think we all have some culpability. And that's a lot to live with. But I'm not scared anymore, and I was for most of the night. Let's just stay here for a second, alright? This was actually a pretty good night, by the end of it all. And I like it here."
He smiles, because it was. They're essentially homeless, they're facing a lawsuit that will humiliate all of them, and they're about to dump all the money they have into this apartment. There are a thousand and six reasons why this shouldn't be a good night. But their friends got engaged, they still have jobs — for now — and a warm, content Sloan is curled into his side.
He's a lucky guy.