Hey all! These continue to zip on by — not that many to go now (Wow!). This one emerged when I realized how closely I'd put the wedding to the Genoa retraction (though, of course, I did that way before the actual episodes aired) and realized that would probably come up in a deposition. I also wanted to do a little of the Genoa autumn from Sloan's perspective, as the chapters that dealt with it most directly were Don's. So here you all go! This chapter directly precedes chapter ten, and lays the groundwork for Sloan's nerves there. Hopefully the metaphor of the hurricane is clear, but not sledge-hammeringly obvious.

October

"There's a storm coming, Mr. Wayne," Sloan intones as she hears Don enter her office behind her. She's standing at the window, entranced by the first few placid drops. They're light, almost graceful. It makes her barely believe the weather reports. "You and your friends —"

"Alright, Morgan Freeman —"

"That was Anne Hathaway's line," she says indignantly, turning around. A roll of thunder crackles outside. How dare he frequently bemoan her lack of movie knowledge but then not get a quote?

"Really? Because it kinda sounded like you were doing a Morgan Freeman —"

"How did that possibly sound like Morgan Freeman?"

"Your voice got really deep, and it sounded like you were, you know, doing one of his God roles. Like from when he narrated The Bible, maybe?"

"You know, you make fun of the fact that I've only seen movies you've taken me to, but you don't remember the movies we do see. That was Anne Hathaway's line in The Dark Knight Rises."

"We clearly both suck," he says wryly. "Anyways. Did you see Charlie's email? The storm-coverage planning meeting is happening in like two minutes."

"Got it," she says, and he holds the door open. "So you know how being married means that I'm your favorite correspondent?"

"You were my favorite before then, but sure."

"Even better. I have a favor to ask."

"Sloan, if Charlie decides to send you to Cape Hatteras to stand in the street with your Hunters on, there's really nothing I can do."

Ugh. She hates it when he's all mind-reader-y. "Why did I marry you?" she pouts.

"I'm supportive, a good listener, and I understand the demands of your job, never judge you when you order a second helping of French toast …" he suggests.

"Oh. Definitely the last one, yes," she smiles as they walk into the senior-staff meeting.

"It really is a freakish devotion, you know," he says as they take their seats.

"It was my first love. Can you truly deny me my first love?" She realizes the rest of the room is quiet. Whoops.

"Great. The Keefers are here, everybody," Charlie says.

"Exactly on time, Charlie," Don points out.

"Alright, people, a storm's a-brewing," Charlie says. "And we're going to have to be ready. Fifty people have died in Haiti. The governors of Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Maryland, and New York, as well as the mayor of D.C., declared states of emergency today. It's currently a Category 3 storm; if it stays at this strength when it comes up the Atlantic Coast, we're talking death and destruction of the highest order. It could be another Katrina. Or, it could turn into another Hurricane Irene. We simply don't know." Sloan supposes there is a metaphor in that. "We're going to run coverage out of New York, though D.C., you're going to need to send reporters down the coast to North Carolina. Chad is going to be coordinating coverage through the length of the storm."

Chad's their national news director who works from the twenty-seventh floor, which is where the desk staff work from. While it totally makes sense for him to run point on this story, Sloan's a little disappointed in the decision — she totally wanted Don to get the coordinator role. He deserves it, for sure. But she also gets that everyone who played a role in Genoa is going to be spending a significant portion of the next few weeks getting deposed, and that Charlie's favoritism of the primetime producers over the desk staff — to whom she actually, technically reported to as well, as a part of the national and money desks — had helped cause Genoa. She understands wanting to keep all of them away from any major stories, from any major potential Peabody-worthy stories, until this is cleared up. But she wishes it could be different.

Chad stands. He's straight-shouldered and boring. "Thanks, Charlie. I'm excited for this opportunity, and I think we're going to be able to offer great coverage to our viewers. We're going to play it straight until we know any more information, but just know that if you're a national correspondent without a show to anchor, you're on call to travel anywhere from Delaware to Maine for live shots." Sloan breathes a huge sigh of relief — she's safe — and makes eye contact with Don, who smirks. "I'll be coordinating with our production units, and I anticipate having about six to eight correspondents out — yes, Suzanne?"

"Have the official rain jackets of ACN changed since last year's storm? Because the shade of blue we had blended in really well with the clouds and the rain and the general misery around us. Too well. I looked like a bobblehead doll. A bobblehead doll being tossed around in the rain."

"I — are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Can I suggest yellow?"

"Um —"

"We don't have time," Don points out. "Besides, the blue is ACN blue; we have a trademark. And you look great in blue! Everyone does." Suzanne huffs back in her seat but is quiet.

"Anyways," Chad regains his composure and authority. "D.C., cover the political angle — the White House and FEMA response. Dana, I'll need you on the New York City government. Damon, the transportation angle. Marina and Chelsea, state governments. Sloan, the Wall Street and financial angles. That includes the damage's impact on the local and national economies. If the stock market is shut down, what does it mean? That kind of stuff."

"Yup," she says, because that's obvious.

"And Chris, the military — Navy, Coast Guard. Don, you'll be managing the control room if and when this thing makes land." This is not totally out of the blue — Chad rose through the reportorial, not producerial, ranks — she's still pleasantly surprised. From the looks of it, so is Don. "We'll do panels night-of with Sloan, Will, and Elliot."

There's a bunch more procedural nonsense before the meeting is finally dismissed. As they're leaving, Charlie calls, "Sloan! Don!" They approach warily. It really is 50-50 with Charlie these days. "Where are you two living these days? Have you moved yet?"

"Still at Sloan's old place," Don says, and she likes the way he says old place. "We're closing on the new one just after the election."

"Her old place in the Financial District? What evacuation zone are you in?"

"A," she shrugs. "Last year, during Irene, I got a hotel that I never had to use. We can do the same this year."

"Don't bother, if the order goes out — I have a studio a couple blocks away you two can use, if you want."

"You have a studio?"

"Yes. Sometimes I have to stay late and I need a place to crash. Sophie's planning on moving down when she graduates, and God knows she won't be able to afford a place in the cool part of Brooklyn like she wants on a philosophy-major's salary, so it'll go to her next year. But if you want it if you get evacuated, you can have it."

"What will you do?"

"I have a home! A nice one. In Greenwich. I'm going there."

"So is this like a secret apartment for, like, a mistress?" Don asks. He looks scandalized.

"Yes, because I'm Don Draper," Charlie says. "Watch out for your foot kicking your gift horse in the mouth."

"I see what you were trying to do there, with the metaphors, and I gotta say —"

"Out," Charlie says, but without rancor.

"Wait — if we do have to get evacuated, we'd appreciate the offer. Forget what Don said. He has a stupid big mouth."

"Well, of course it still stands. Just. If you need it," he shrugs. "Also, you'll both need to talk to Rebecca Halliday this week."

"Do I need a lawyer?" Sloan asks.

"No," Charlie says. "She is your lawyer."

"I still feel like I need one."

"You're not guilty. You didn't do anything wrong," Charlie points out before walking away.

She stares after him and waits a beat. "He knows that's not actually how that works, right?"

Don shrugs. "I kind of agree with him."

Sloan tries not to keep her mouth hanging open for too long.

When the Zone A evacuation order comes on Sunday — they're at home when they get a news alert — Don is predictably cranky. "All the cool kids will stay," he kvetches as she tosses jeans and shirts into a suitcase and he throws perishables away. She's fairly certain they'll be back Monday evening too, so she's not bringing anything nice — she can always borrow stuff from work for the air — but she's not going to say that. "It's not even a real hurricane. 'Tropical storm' doesn't even sound remotely scary. And remember Irene? That hotel room you never used?"

"I don't care, Don," she shrugs. "I grew up in Japan and San Francisco, where you don't get warnings for natural disasters. We might as well take advantage of it."

"Yes, but we'll be sleeping in Charlie's bed. He's our boss, Sloan. That's weird."

"That's a fair point," she acknowledges. "You should probably sleep on the couch then," she almost keeps a straight face through that.

They pick up the keys from Charlie, who is unsurprisingly at ACN, and she heads over to check out the apartment while Don stays to help Chad prep coverage of the storm. The apartment, located two blocks from ACN, is a generically modern one-bedroom that doesn't look particularly lived in, but she still spends time checking out the photos and poking into the medicine cabinet. Almost everything is bare-to-the-point-of-ridiculous, save for the liquor cabinet, which is well stocked. Figures — there are two suits in the closet, but twelve bottles of Scotland's finest. She gives up and ducks into the broody, Mr. Rochester-esque streets to stock up on more canned goods and candles. Just in case. She can hear Don smirking at her preparedness.

Her morning class at Columbia is canceled, which is good, because Chad texts them at 7 and tells them to be in by 8 for a staff meeting. ACN is bustling by the time they arrive, and Chad's already made the call to go to an "ACN Reports" panel format for all of dayside coverage as well. She groans internally at that announcement — she'll be on from one to five in addition to the primetime panel. It's a lot of TV. When she mentions this to Don, he shrugs. "At least you won't be in front of a camera in a raincoat in North Carolina," he smirks.

The rest of the morning and afternoon is a blur — it's grinding, but there's not much they can do. Just gather information and report on the damage. It's not like Gabby Giffords, when there were sources to call and meaning to convey. In fact, it's kind of … boring: All the stress and responsibility of breaking news, with none of the suspense: They all know the storm is going to hit, and that it'll be bad. She hosts conversations with several emergency preparedness professors and former FEMA officials, talks to a bunch of damage-assessment and insurance execs, and spends at least an hour trying to get ahold of Chris Christie. All watching the storm drench New York does is make it abundantly clear that she probably won't be able to get into her apartment for at least several days. If it wasn't for Don saying cracking jokes into her ear — and the fact that she was right about the storm — she'd be climbing up the walls.

Don swaps her out at five, and she goes to hide in her office, sip a soda, and look at Pinterest boards about kitchen renovations. It's become a total time-suck in the best way. She only on her third re-pin when Charlie finds her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Taking a break?" she tries. "I've been on for six hours straight and I feel that I've earned it. I'm going onto the primetime panel at eight."

"You have your first deposition prep. With the lawyers. Will and Mac and Don and Maggie had theirs last week. It's your turn."

"That's … still a thing?" She scrolls through her phone to see if there's anything new she should be covering. Spencer has texted her to ask what brand her blouse is, so she twists to see the tag before typing back Karen Millen.

"Gee, I don't know, are we still getting sued?"

"I meant because of the storm!"

"Lawyers don't stop for hurricanes!"

"Well it seems like there were extenuating circumstances!'

"Conference room. Now."

She huffs and flounces off to the conference room. Knocking twice, she enters. "Hi," she says. "I'm —"'

"Sloan Sabbith?" the woman, a queen among three princes, says.

"Yes."

"You're late."

Great. "Sorry. There's a superstorm system hitting New York right now, and I was covering it."

"Ah. You're a newswoman," she emphasizes the word strangely, like she's proud of herself. Or it's some sort of weirdly private joke that only she gets.

"I guess. I prefer journalist. And by training, I'm an economist. And you are?"

"Rebecca Halliday," she smiles, and Sloan does not trust it. "I'm your lawyer."

"You're ACN's lawyer. I haven't retained counsel."

Rebecca looks charmed. "Ah! Pre-law, or a dad who was a lawyer?"

"Mother, actually," she says. "And sister."

"God bless the sisterhood," Rebecca says, then suddenly turns businesslike. "Alright. So you are here because you're going to be called first to be deposed, and then likely testify, about ACN's development and airing of the Genoa story. You're not a potential witness; you are a definite, and potentially critical, witness. Jerry Dantana is suing —"

"Yup, I know."

"He's alleging that institutional failure led to the broadcast, not his individual actions."

"That's hilarious, because clearly the institution was in the edit bay with him when he hacking away at the raw footage."

"He admits he did that —"

"Phew. Otherwise we might have a real problem."

"But he believes that he's a scapegoat. I'm here to show that the staff of NewsNight acted with good intentions, but I'll need to do more than that: I need to show that whatever failures ACN had as an institution — and I'm getting the idea there were many — that did not contribute preponderantly to Genoa's eventual airing. That that was malice on the part of Dantana and ACN is not responsible for that."

"That should be fairly straightforward, since it's not and, as I said, he edited raw footage. Which is inherently malicious."

Rebecca smiles like she's watching a YouTube video of a puppy using a hula hoop. "Right. To do all of that, I'm going to need to know everything about what's happened at ACN in the last fourteen months. This will help us formulate a strategy. Today, though, we're just getting to know each other. I feel we got off onto the wrong foot. I'm Rebecca Halliday, respected First Amendment litigator at Lowell Tiller. These are Trip, Bailey, and Mark, and they work for me. They're very friendly. Now what's your full name and title?"

Sloan smiles ruefully. "Sloan Aiko Sabbith. I'm the chief financial correspondent at ACN, I anchor two shows in the afternoon and I appear on NewsNight for at least five minutes most days. Occasionally I do panels, or fill in for Elliot Hirsch. I received Ph.D.s in decision theory and macroeconomics from Duke University, and I became aware of Operation Genoa as a member of the Red Team, which vetted the story in the months leading up to its airing."

"And you're married to Don Keefer, correct? The EP of Right Now with Elliot Hirsch and your fellow Red Team member."

"Yes."

"I saw it in the New York Times last month. Newlyweds. Congratulations."

"Thanks. Can't say I was a huge fan of the picture, but I didn't really have a choice. My mother actually put it in without telling us, and it was short notice, so she bumped someone else and pulled something from an email months ago."

"Quite a busy month — Genoa on the 9th, Benghazi on the 11th, the wedding on the 15th. That's some unfortunate timing. But weddings — I've had three, I know — even small ones take months to plan, so the show must go on."

Sloan stares. There's something very knowing in her tone. "Are you — you're asking if we got married to invoke spousal privilege?" She's offended.

Rebecca shrugs. "I'm not asking, I'm insinuating. I admit, I find the timing curious. As will Dantana's lawyers. It looks like you had something to hide."

"We don't. We got married because we wanted to be married."

"You got married because you wanted to be married," Rebecca parrots. "Five days after the worst day of your careers."

"You know, and we thought the worst thing we'd thrown at us was a lot of pregnancy jokes. But no, this is great. Please continue. I'm enjoying this."

"Are you pregnant? I'll be candid and say that would be helpful."

"Alright, that's enough. This is way beyond the scope of the deposition, and I have to be on the air in a few hours," she moves to stand.

"Reee-laaaaax. Sit down," Rebecca coos, leaning across the table. "I'm just prepping you for what Dantana's attorneys are going to say. The two most likely — I'm not saying for the two of you, since I'm sure you're perfectly matched and star-crossed — reasons for getting married after ten months is either you're pregnant or you have something to hide. And particularly since this trial will rest on the reliability of your husband's ex-girlfriend as a witness you need to have a response that is neither catty nor trite in order to prove that your husband doesn't just take the side of whoever he's slept with."

She sits, mindlessly tapping her wedding band against her engagement ring. "We — us — we're separate from Genoa. The timing is coincidental. Don and I, together, have done everything fast. We became friends within twelve hours. A year and a half later, we drifted, like —" she snaps, "that. Once we started dating, it took us about six months to start thinking about whether or not we wanted to get married. And we did. After Genoa and Benghazi, we realized that sometimes life is really short. Everyone we needed at the wedding could get to New York by that Saturday, so we decided to get married then. I hate to disappoint you, but that's kind of it."

"How romantic," Rebecca says.

"This is a tough crowd, I can tell," Sloan says. "The case rests on the reliability of Maggie?"

"Yes. Don seems to trust her quite a bit."

"That's not surprising, because he should trust her."

"You trust her?"

"Of course."

"You trust Don's faith in her?"

"Of course." She stares straight back at Rebecca. She absolutely trusts Don, but even if she didn't — she's not going to give an inch here.

"That's very confident of you."

"I'm a confident person. And I know my husband. And I trust him."

Rebecca puts her glasses back on. "So. Turning to Jerry Dantana. When did you meet him?"

She finally gets out of the damned meeting around 6:30 (explaining to Rebecca how and why Dantana came up from D.C. was fun, to say the least). After quickly putting together a segment with Jim on the potential hit the economy will take from the storm, she's back on air with Elliot and Will. Don's been on all day, so Mac, Jim, and Mike (Don's senior producer) are running the room for the first two hours of primetime. He materializes behind the camera around nine, as she's interviewing the mayor of Atlantic City. She flicks her eyes toward him once, a private signal of acknowledgement, and he waits till the commercial to come up to her at the desk. "So we're never getting into our apartment again. Think Charlie will be OK with us being tenants?" she says self-deprecatingly.

The corners of his mouth flick up. "We're signing on the new place in less than two weeks. We'll be out of there in no time. How did your meeting with Rebecca Halliday go?"

She lifts one shoulder. "Fine, I guess."

"I thought she was OK. For a lawyer. Did you know that Mrs. Lansing used to babysit her?"

"I did. I didn't like her much though. Can we discuss this later?"

He considers her carefully. "Sure," he hops up on the counter to give her a little kiss. He's become much more openly affectionate since the wedding. "You're back in ten."

They're dismissed at eleven, and have a quick discussion over whether to stay at ACN or make a break for it. Charlie solves it for them when he says, "I gave you my apartment, and you're still here? Don't tell me you're being noble."

"You should go stay there. It's your place."

He shrugs. "Here, the backup generators are on and I have my favorite extra suit and the backup generators are on. There, I don't know which suits I have and whether or not there is power. Go. We booked the rest of the staff at the Hilton for the night. Everyone needs sleep. Go."

She pulls on her Hunters and Don grabs the flimsy umbrella that now looks like a joke. As they're leaving, she kisses Charlie's cheek and says, "Thank you."

Outside, it's basically ten times worse than the worst rainstorm she's ever seen. The rain is coming down aggressively, and the wind keeps sending it in eighty-three directions. The streets are eerie rivers, and all of the streetlights are out. Few buildings have light, and she keeps an eye out for downed power lines. It's like they're four-fifths of the way through a sea-monster movie.

The power is unsurprisingly out at Charlie's — she reported earlier in the night that there were planned preventive outages across the city — and they take the stairs up, pausing at the base of the stairwell to try and dry off. Don tries shaking his arms out, and his curls flick water at Sloan. She laughs, and is surprised how hard and tired and foreign it sounds. "You OK?" he asks.

"It's been a long day," she says. "And I'm standing in a dark stairwell wringing water out of my hair."

"Fair point," he says. "Let's get dry clothes. Come on."

Upstairs the apartment is drenched in darkness, and they move carefully through the unfamiliar space. Don miscalculates a wall's placement by about five centimeters and hisses a fuck when he stubs his toe. She feels through the drawers to find two pairs of leggings, cable-knit socks, and her favorite sweater (marled gray with a cool diagonal zip), which she throws over a teal long-sleeved tee. Don slowly enters the bathroom to grab towels, and gives her a "Head's up!" before tossing one at her.

"Thanks," she says.

"I figure, since we can't shower…"

"Good idea," she affirms as she towels off her hair and hands. Don trades his wet jeans and boxers for gray flannel pants and his wet henley for a dry henley (his wardrobe is ridiculously predictable).

"If we break open one of Charlie's bottles of wine, how much do you think we'll owe him?"

"Hopefully no more than two hundred," she says lightly. "It's worth it." They pad out to the living room, where she arranges the two dozen candles she bought across the coffee table, the windowsill, and the breakfast bar, and Don digs through the drawers for a corkscrew and glasses.

"So, uh, the deposition prep didn't go well?" he calls from the kitchen.

She sighs as she punches fluff into the throw pillows. "I didn't — I respect she's a great lawyer and she's good for the case. It'll be fine."

"What did she ask about?"

She sighs as she flops against the couch. "Whether or not we got married to cover something up. If I trusted you with Maggie. Really great, non-personally-invasive stuff that was completely related to Genoa."

He laughs. "She did not."

"She did."

"What did you say?"

"Well, first I told her that it was offensive and I prefered insinuations that I was pregnant."

He laughs. "And then what?"

"She told me that if I were pregnant, it would be a lot easier to explain off!" She blows a piece of hair off her face. She feels all sorts of off. Don brings her a glass of wine and shoves her feet aside so he can put them in his lap. She takes a sip. Damn, Charlie has good taste in 's one of his best qualities, honestly. "It sounds like they're worried that Dantana's going to say that we did something and got married to invoke spousal privilege. Or that your judgment was biased because you used to date Maggie."

"Well," he says after a beat. "This'll be fun."

"It's going to be bad, Don," she says miserably. God, she is so tired. "I ... don't think I realized that. Mac and Will and Charlie — they're going to lose their jobs."

"No they won't. And if they do we'll quit."

"We will?"

"Yes. We gave them the story — vetted it, produced it, fact-checked it. If they get fired unfairly because of that we should go to."

She considers it. They'll be fine, financially. She could teach for a while, do a column, Sunday morning shows. And he'd be scooped up by NBC or CNN within hours. "A matter of principle," she says.

"Damn straight," he says. "But they won't and you know why?"

"Why?"

"Rebecca Halliday is smart. Mrs. Lansing is smart. No way they look at the facts and think there was institutional failure. Nobody's getting fired. We'll be fine."

She sighs and takes a sip of wine. "We should still resign though. We were Red Team, we were paid to be skeptical. We weren't skeptical enough." she says as she realizes. They're in so much trouble; they're taking the fall for the rest of them. Will probably won't work again, just like Dan Rather. For Mac, this — on top of the ongoing mess with Will, on top of Pakistan, on top of the entire fragile existence she's constructed in New York, built entirely around her feelings of professional self-worth — will probably cause an existential meltdown. Her best friend will crack, hard and permanently and unbelievably fast. Because they didn't do their jobs.

"Hey, hey, hey. No. We raised our objections — terrorism, the election. We were skeptical."

She bites the rim of the wine glass lightly, contemplating. There's something so vaguely unnerving and portentous about the entire situation. Actually, there's nothing vague; it's just portentious and unnerving. And all of it happening during a honest-to-god hurricane — now, that's just a bonus from the gods of irony and sardonicism. "Fine, then. But once the first domino — the tape — fell, we all contributed to the rest falling. We're on the ship, just as much as Will and Mac and Charlie are."

"Yes, but …"

"What?"

"You're awfully … hard on yourself, on everyone, tonight. You're usually more …"

"Logical."

"Honestly? Sane. Come on, babe. You're scared; you had a long day, and it's been insane lately. But remember, Sloan, he —"

"Fucked it up, I know," she stares out the window, then back at him, lips pursed. "Did we rush things?"

"What?" he asks. "You mean, us? The wedding?"

"Not that — not that I don't want to be married to you."

"That's all of it, then."

"No. We got married six days after the biggest fuckup of either of our careers, as literally the world was crashing down around us. It — It does look desperate. It does look impulsive. And I trust you and I love you, but I don't want this … marred. I don't want people thinking we got married because of Genoa or because we were pregnant or because we were sleep-deprived."

"If they do? Fuck them. There are two people that matter to this relationship — you and me. Do you believe that? Honestly, did that factor into your decision?"

"Of course not," she says. "Not even a little bit, Don."

"Mine, either. And nobody who knows us thinks those things either. This bullshit, that Rebecca Halliday just put in your head? It'll blow over in a few days. All of this will."

"Do you really think that? Because I think it'll get worse before it gets better."

"OK, Genoa's going to take a little bit longer. But you know how I know we didn't get married because we were stressed out or covering up something about Genoa?"

"How?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Because things have gotten exponentially worse since we got married," he shrugs. "And you know what? We're making it. We're doing fine. You … trusted me way more than you should have, when we were starting out. Remember? Can you … trust me now?"

"I trust you, Don."

"I know. But on this." He kisses her knuckles. "Gotta tell you, it's a little weird being the optimist here."

"Please, your cynic-with-a-secret-nougat-center schtick wore off months ago."

He smiles ruefully. "Come on. I think we both need sleep. And my mom always said things look brighter in the morning."

"Alright then," she says, and they carefully blow out candles and shuffle to the bedroom. She curls in the strange bed, still freezing, and he slides in behind her. He's asleep after a quick kiss to her neck, but she lies there for a while, tucked away anonymously in New York City listening to the storm rage on. She thinks about the Rockaways and the babies at NYU and the rest of the people in her building and the family of the woman who was struck by a tree, and she hopes they're alright.

She hopes they're alright too.

She's not convinced they will be.