Hey all! Apologies for the delay here; I needed to work out the boundaries between this one and the last. one. I need. to start. Crazy right? Thanks again for everyone who has stuck with this!
The universe is shaped exactly like the earth; if you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were. - Modest Mouse
May
The plane lands with a jerky bump, shaking Don immediately out of a deep slumber. He's temporarily and profoundly disoriented: "Where are we?" he asks.
Beside him, Sloan's shuffling papers. "We're at JFK."
"Right," he says, awareness seeping through his body. Finally. "What day is it?"
"I … am not sure. I hope Saturday," she says. "That's when we were supposed to get back, right?"
"I … think," he says, cracking his neck. "Whatcha doing? Is that work?"
They've just spent two weeks in Phuket, literally fourteen thousand miles away from everything. They had one rule — no work. It was gloriously successful: Their two-bedroom villa had been the most serene, remote place Don had ever been, quiet and with views of beach, sand, and trees, and nothing else; there was no TV, not even in the resort bar; and their phones were powered off and on their kitchen counter. If something terrible had happened, they would not have known until … well, until now.
And honest to god, he loved it. There was food, and drinks, and some activities (snorkeling, temple tours, massages, canoeing, shopping excursions, elephant ride, a really scary muay Thai bout, restaurants), but mostly just sleep, sun, and sex. The staff at Amanpuri had been discreet to the point of invisible, bringing a breakfast spread into the living room without detection every morning and lighting a fire in the fireplace when they'd been out on evening walks. Their villa had had a private pool, and they'd spent hours on the deck, Sloan slippery and solid between his hands and only occasionally clothed in one of the twelve bikinis she had brought.
They'd joked about abandoning New York and homeschooling hypothetical kids on the beach when they'd arranged for their time off, way back in September, and he'd spent the entire last day of the trip trying to convince her to miss the flight. Learning how to be married had been hard enough without the external influences. Since the wedding, they'd had an apartment sale, an apartment purchase, a hurricane, an election, a move, a lawsuit that did not go to trial, a lawsuit that did go to trial, an elementary-school shooting, holidays with both sets of their parents, a kitchen renovation, another apartment sale, an engagement party (Mac's) a birthday (hers), a new show offer (also hers), the Boston bombing, a housewarming, the Correspondent's Dinner (thankfully nobody got set on fire this year), and about ten work trips between the two of them. It had been a rough first six months, to say the least. Staying on the beach was way too tempting.
She adjusts her hipster glasses and finger-combs her hair. "I"m not working," she promises. "Well, I kind of am. But just … sketching stuff out." She puts the pad down. "Just stuff to remember to tell Jim. Besides, vacation's over!"
He glances at the notebook and estimates she's filled forty pages of 'stuff to tell Jim.' It's not that surprising — her show is launching in a scant two weeks, and she's preoccupied with making sure it goes well. "Don't say that," he groans, head hitting his knees, and she absentmindedly runs her fingers through his curls. "Though, by the way, I am going to enjoy watching you be his boss."
She laughs throatily, and reaches down to pinch his arm. "Mean!" she exclaims. "I am going to be great."
"Yeah, you are," he smiles. "So what are you doing?" he yawns.
"Outlining the show from the top, but also trying to sketch out where to go in-depth. Figuring out that balance, you know?" She flips through some of her papers to find something. "Selecting features."
"You still want to do the gun-control show too?"
She looks at him in surprise as people start unbuckling and moving toward the overhead bins. It was an idea they'd discussed, post-Boston, to put together a special together, her anchoring, him producing. But they hadn't brought it up since (mostly because of the no-work rule). "Yeah. I do. Do you?"
"Of course I do. I said I did, and I meant it." He flips the hatch on the overhead compartment and grabs their carry-ins. He accidentally bumps a guy in bedouin robes (they'd connected in Dubai). He apologies hastily and hopes he wasn't inadvertently culturally insensitive.
They pass the time getting off the gangway and waiting in the customs line chatting about the show; what gossip they might've missed (has Jim asked Maggie out? The world is waiting); what time it is (Sloan swears it's noon, he swears it's five p.m. They check the clock and realize it's two and they're both screwed); the terribleness of airport ACN; and who has to pick up Clem from the kennel tomorrow (Sloan loses rock, paper, scissors; he gloats). He tries passing out in the cab, but Sloan shakes him awake, sternly reminding him of how bad his night's sleep is going to be if he crashes now.
The apartment is clean and gloriously quiet when they get in — Clem will change the second part as soon as she gets home. He drags the suitcases into the bedroom as Sloan plugs in their dead phones in the kitchen and roots through the pantry for any remaining food. "I think we should just go to the deli. Not only is there nothing here that looks like it's still good, I don't trust myself to operate any machinery right now."
"We could just go to sleep now and that would solve everything," he suggests. He's way too tired to drag himself down to the deli. "What time is it in Thailand?"
Sloan squints at the microwave's clock, currently displaying 3:51. "It's about midnight, I think," she says slowly. "I'm terrible at time zones, you know this." She really is. It's almost endearing, how bad the math genius is at telling time.
"And we left yesterday."
"I think. This is confusing," she looks down at their phones. "Do we want to turn them on?"
"God no. Remember how many emails there were when we were in Costa Rica? Let's not." He looks over at their perpetually-forgotten landline: The machine has eight messages. That's doable. He punches play.
The first message is their cable provider, asking if they want an upgrade — "Delete," Sloan says, unearthing some quinoa. The second is a sales call asking if they're satisfied with their life insurance. "Delete," he mutters. Message three is from their super, warning of a water stoppage that happened five days ago, and he deletes that too.
"You have to rinse quinoa first, right?" Sloan asks, scrunching her face at the plastic bag like it's a diaper to be changed.
"Yes," he says.
Message four is his mother saying, "Hi Don, hi Sloan, I know you're on your honeymoon, but I tried both your cells and your work lines, and I got that your inboxes were full —"
"Fuck," Sloan groans. He thinks she's talking about the 'your inboxes were full' thing, because that's miserable, but nope, she scorched her finger with the water.
"You OK?" he asks as his mother rambles about Mason's new drum set.
"Yeah."
"— anyways, like I said, I didn't really have a reason to call so —"
"Delete?" he asks.
"Delete," Sloan agrees. "If we don't have vegetables, what can we put on quinoa? Do you think we could do tomato sauce?"
Gross. He flips open the pantry. "Canned chickpeas, canned artichoke hearts, and canned red peppers?" he asks.
"Sure," she shrugs. This is exactly why she doesn't cook.
Beep. "Hey, Don, it's Darrell. I know you and Sloan are on your honeymoon — congrats, man, by the way — but I've left messages on your other phones and emailed you, and I wanted to make sure it didn't get lost in the shuffle. I'd love to grab lunch with you soon, if you're free. Catch up. Are you back Sunday? If so, and you get this before then, let's say then." Beep.
"That's strange," he says as he deletes the remaining messages (automated bill-pay reminder from the electric company; Ned from Auto Insurance Direct asking if they're happy with their current car insurance; Sloan's OB-GYN reminding her of an appointment on Friday, which she's already missed. Whoops.).
"Is that Darrell from when you worked at Newsweek?"
"Yeah. He's at CBS now. I haven't spoken to him in months." He's … associate national news director? Something.
"You wanna get brunch with him tomorrow?"
"Lunch, not brunch. Two men don't get brunch, Sloan."
She rolls her eyes. "Do you want to get lunch with him tomorrow, then?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. Do you want to do something tomorrow?" He loops his arms around her waist and perches his chin on her shoulder to peek at her very questionable dinner. She's trying to salvage it by tossing onion powder and salt on it. He scrunches his nose. Maybe they should just order takeout.
She kisses him lightly. "I love you, but I've spent the last two weeks with you. I really just want to get brunch with Carrie and Taylor and show off my tan and brag about how many times we had sex."
He grins, nipping and suckling lightly at her collarbone. She swats him away to deal with the quinoa but he's persistent, running his hands up under her sweatshirt and over the Lululemon capris she'd worn on the plane. "We're at what? Eighteen? Let's go for twenty," he wheedles, biting her ear.
She laughs and turns off the stove, the battle lost, and starts dragging him to the living room. "Only if you promise never to use such a smarmy line again," she retorts, kissing him full in the mouth as he lowers them both onto the sofa.
They order Indian for dinner, get to an even twenty in two weeks, and pass out around eight. The next day, Sloan heads way downtown to meet her Carrie the Confused Democrat and Taylor the Honorable Republican at Russ and Daughters, and he heads over to Jacob's Pickle to meet Darrell.
He's already grabbed a tiny table. "Hey, man," Darrell says, rising to give him a back-slap. "Honestly, surprised you wanted to meet with me today. Are you dead from jet lag?"
"Oh yeah," he says. "Sloan made us stay up to eight last night, though, so hopefully getting better. Gotta be able to produce Elliot's show tomorrow night, at any rate."
"Good honeymoon? Where'd you guys go?"
"The best. Thailand. We were pretty serious that we wanted to get far, far away," he smiles. "Anyways. How's Josh?"
"Being married to a chef is problematic for the waistline, let me tell you," Darrell grins. They discuss family and work for a while, until Darrell says, "You probably wonder why I called you up out of the blue."
"You didn't just want the pickles? I'm just here for the pickles." Because they're delicious.
"Nah," he smiles. "Though they're tasty. You remember Rachel McQwery?"
"The one who spells her last name without a u? Yeah," he says. "Your politics director, right?"
"Yeah. She's moving to Politico. Associate editor at the magazine."
"Good for them," he says. He's only met her a couple of times, but she's great.
"So we have an opening," Darrell says, taking a bite of his fried BLT. "You interested?"
"In politics director?"
"This year's only going to get more interesting, and next year are the midterms," he says. "Whatever you're making now, it's a salary jump. You'd oversee about sixty staffers."
"How much travel?"
"Down to D.C. at least twice a month, probably," he shrugs. "The Face the Nation team would report to you so you'd have to be pretty hands-on."
"I've barely done politics."
"Bullshit," Darrell says affably. "You practically ran ACN's election coverage in addition to EP-ing your own show. Everyone knows Mac McHale's strength is international, not domestic, and that Chad on the national desk is actually an empty suit."
"Mostly a wet blanket, but I'm serious! I'm not Tapper or Todd."
"Thank God for that," Darrell retorts. "I'm serious too. You're our first choice. Think about it."
"Thanks man," he says.
When he gets home, Sloan has picked up the dog and they're both on the balcony — Clem appears to be helping Sloan answer emails (they'd both had upwards of 8,000 when they'd finally turned their phones on yesterday). "Hey," he says, leaning down to kiss her. "How was brunch?"
"Everyone was suitably impressed."
"With the tan or …"
She smirks. "Both."
"As they should be," he grins. "Hey, I passed one of those street fairs you like on the way home. Want to check it out?"
"Does Charlie like bourbon?" she grins. Save perhaps for new issues of The Economist, there are few things Sloan loves more than twelve-dollar mini-jars of locally sourced lavender honey from wholesalers based in Brooklyn. "Let me find a sweater."
"It's May," he calls as she dashes inside.
"It's freezing. Leash Clementine, will you?"
Twenty minutes later, they're wandering between booths of apples cider pressed in the Hudson Valley and maple syrup trucked down from Vermont and cheese cultured in Queens. There's a face-painting station with a long line of kids, and a guy with a guitar playing (of course) Jason Mraz. Sloan's in oversized, incognito everything: a dark-blue maxi dress; an enormous gray ikat-print cardigan with black leather sleeves (he knows what the fuck ikat is now, and he's proud of it); huge Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. It makes her look very tiny as she slips her hands around his forearms. He's got one hand on Clem's leash and the other in his pocket as they navigate the toddlers on strider-bikes and the moms with strollers. It's sunny but not too warm, and they're surrounded by chatty laughter. They sample a spicy pepperoni pizza and split two fish tacos as they stare at a metalworkers' booth. Sloan buys hand-stamped thank-you cards for the housewarming from a printmaker based in Hoboken. It's a good life.
"I never asked — how was Darrell?" Sloan asks as she smells some lilies. "We should get an invite over to his place for dinner — Josh is supposed to be an amazing cook."
"Yeah, he's at Blue Hill now," Don says. "It's good. He — he offered me a job."
Sloan's eyes bug out. "That's amazing, Don! Producing?"
"No. Editing and managing," he says. "Politics director for CBS News."
She cocks her head. She can tell he's not entirely enthused. "That sounds great."
"I'd be supervising Face the Nation," he points out, letting the implication hang.
"So you'd be traveling to D.C. a lot?" she confirms. "That's fine. We travel a lot as-is."
"One of us is gone once or twice a month for a couple of days. That's not what this would be. I could end up in D.C. half time."
"We'd be fine with that. Hell, I could go work out of D.C. for a couple of days if it got stressful."
"Not with your new show," he points out. "And … I don't know. Politics really isn't my thing, you know." He's more of a domestic-policy guy.
"Please. News is your thing, Don. And this has a lot of ties to your other things. You'd be in a better position to bring the hammer of Thor down onto politicians and candidates about the issues you care about. CBS is definitely going to get debates in 2016 and you would get to EP those, and you'd probably be a consulting producer for Pelley, I'm guessing?"
"Yeah," he shrugs. "I'm proud of you for that Marvel reference, by the way."
She cocks her head, confused at how blase he is. "And I'm guessing it's more money?"
"Sloan, your salary will actually add a zero to the end of it starting June 1. I don't care about the fucking money."
"What do you want to be when you grow up, Keefer?" she asks bluntly as she hands over ten dollars for four apples grown by the Amish in Pennsylvania.
"Tossup between airline pilot and pro tennis player," he shoots back.
"I'm serious," she says. "I always thought —" she stops.
"What?"
"I … I kinda have always thought you wanted Charlie's job. Or hell, Reese's. Eventually. Or Charlie's job or Reese's job at another network. But since we met, that's where I thought you were heading. You became the EP of a primetime broadcast at thirty-two, Don. It's not Zuckerian, but it's damn close. You don't do that without wanting something else later, and I thought it was —"
"No. You're right," he cuts off her rambling. She really does know him damn well.
"Ha!" she says triumphantly. "So why are you hesitating? This would be a good stepping stone. And not for nothing, you'd be great at it."
He shrugs. "Yeah, I'm not sure it's the stepping stone I want." He thinks back to his conversation with Rebecca Halliday on election night. "I like where I am, right now. I like what I'm doing."
"You won't know if you'd like this until you try it."
He shrugs as he squeezes a tomato to test out its density. "I'm not interested in trying it. Being at a network not producing and not focusing on the stuff I'm most interested in would be confining. I don't think I'd be able to do as much longform stuff, like the docu we want to put together. And I don't think I'd be able to run the war room. ACN lets me do a bigger variety of stuff — elections, international, domestic policy, special interest, whatever. I'm in with Charlie. And hell, Sloan, I wouldn't be running a show. I'd be producing segments and overseeing stuff. And I like running the whole show."
She pats his cheek fondly. "You're my favorite control freak, you know." She reaches up to kiss him, then pulls away to study him closely. He can tell she's not entirely convinced. "Even if you don't take it, I still think you should use this offer to negotiate something with Charlie."
"Oh, absolutely," he agrees. He'd told her to do the same, and he isn't not going to take his own advice. He gathers the five tomatoes and takes the fresh basil plant in her hands and pays. "What do you want to be when you grow up, Sabbith?"
"Difference is, I am grown up," she answers tartly. "I've been grown up since I was five years old."
"Seriously. You want eight p.m. one day?" Somehow, he can't see her staying in journalism forever, though it doesn't really matter. He's learned he has to be OK with whatever happens — over the course of the next fifty years, he's pretty sure that no matter how much intention and thought they put into their plans, they'll be derailed. Dramatically. Before they got married, he thought he knew how truly limited anyone's agency in this world was, between family and economic circumstances, between gender and sexual orientation and access to healthcare and education. But marriage reduces that limited agency to an infinitesimally smaller ratio: Her decisions are his, and vice versa. Things that happen to one of them, good or bad, happen to them both now. It's different, much different, than dating. They're a unit. He's traded certainty in his career for faith in her.
And the goddamn thing is, he likes everything a lot better this way.
"I don't know," she sighs. "I want — I don't think I'm done, in journalism. I think I'm just getting started. It's a good place to influence people, to educate the public, to have an effect on the electorate and Congress, right now. But I don't know if it's always going to be the best place. And I want to stay teaching, no matter how crazy our lives and careers get."
"You could be the president of a think tank, or something," he suggests. "Academics with a more real-world impact. Get a column or a talk show."
"Maybe," she says, intrigued. "It doesn't really matter, does it? You and me, we have adventures ahead of us, pal."
"Speaking of," he says. "Want to grab Charlie sometime this week and pitch him on the special?"
"Yeah," she says. "Tuesday?"
"Works for me," he says. "Let's hammer out the blocks before we present it to him."
"Deal," she says. "I think we just have the honey booth, and then I'm done. Do you think they'll have that lemon-basil honey from last time?" she goes off in search of it.
"God I hope not," he mutters. He looks at Clem. "That stuff was disgusting, baby girl." Clem whines in agreement, and he smiles.
Later, as they're on the couch, her toes tucked under his thighs as they plot out the special on notecards and laptops, she says, "You sure you're OK with not taking the offer?"
"Sloan," he groans.
"I'm serious," she exclaims. "I want to talk about it."
"We did! This afternoon!"
"It's a good offer," she says, dropping her notepad on the ground. She slouches downwards, crossing her arms in front of her. It's one of her many Means Business poses.
"It's a good offer," he agrees. "It's not the right offer."
"I want to make sure you're actually considering it," she says, getting up and pacing.
"What am I not considering? I've thought about the salary, the position, and the travel. I've thought about the network and the constraints of broadcast. I've thought about the duties. I'm not really interested."
"But there's no rational reason for you to turn down the offer. I started thinking of irrational reasons to turn it down. Option A is you being overprotective to the point of self-sacrifice. Which is a thing, that you do." she says. She takes a deep breath. "I'm going to be OK, on the new show, you know."
"Sloan. Of course you are." He knows two things in life are true: One, he loves Sloan. And two, she will be awesome at anything she sets her mind to.
"I don't want you to think you need to stay at ACN to be some sort of … security blanket as I launch the show," she says, suddenly looking like a lost little girl.
"Sloan. I promise. You think I'm not taking a job so I can take a back seat to your career? Hell no. My career is just as — no more, no less — important as yours. Feminism is a two-way street, babe." When he thinks about it, it's not a crazy line of thought, just so, so off-base. He's not trying to produce her; he's trying to be her partner.
"Because I will be fine," she reasserts, studying him carefully. "I can do this."
"Sloan," he says quizzically. "I know. When — when the fuck have I been anything but honest about your strengths and weaknesses as a journalist? Seriously. I'm not going to lie and say you're going to be great just because I'm married to you. I respect you too much. You're going to be great because you're awesome and you kick ass and you've earned this. Besides," he cracks, to make her smile. "You're hot but not that hot."
"I am all kinds of hot," she protests, her voice rising. She's suppressing a smirk, so he knows she's being self-aware.
"I know," he leans forward to capture her lips in a kiss. "Nobody is that hot, is what I'm saying. Alright?"
"Fine. But Irrational Rational Reason Option B to turn this down: You might not be staying for me, but because of me. You shouldn't do that."
"You're using your prepositions in all sorts of nuanced ways," he observes.
"We have a good thing, working together and being married together. It's nice. It's fun. I like it too. But I don't want you to stay just because I'm there and safe and easy."
"Sloan, I mean this in the nicest possible way: You are never easy."
She's faux-affronted. "I slept with you on the first date."
"Wasn't a date. First date wasn't for three weeks."
"Anyways. You're making my point. We're here, we're solid, and I don't want you to miss out on a good career move so we can get lunch together and you can hide in my office whenever you get dry and someone gets angry. I think you could and should have Charlie's job, or Reese's job. You should move up, and I … I don't want to hold you back," she says, her voice disarmingly thick.
"Sloan, you don't," he says, standing to cross to where she is. "If anything, you're the one that pushes me forward." He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she brings up her hand to link with his loosely around her neck.
"You're not just saying that because I rocked your world twenty times in thirteen days?"
"I'm not saying that's not a nice perk, but no," he laughs.
"Then, as the person who pushes you forward, I think you should take it."
"Yes, I like working with you, and that's something I need to take into account when making this decision. But look at this, Professor," he holds up their sheaf of papers. "Yes, I'm excited to do this with you. But I'm also excited because we're going to hit hard on gun control. Charlie's going to let us — he's going to let ACN do this type of project, after its credibility was nearly destroyed six months ago by Genoa. That's faith. That's trust. That's seven years of me earning his respect and the rest of everyone else at ACN. I'm not stupid enough to throw that away for a salary bump. And the fact that I'm smart enough to know better now? That, there — Sloan, that's all you. You're never easy, this working together and being married — is rarely easy, honestly. But it's worth it, and ACN at this point — it's part of the package. I'm not giving it up."
She studies him. "You think we should lead off the B with a look at the frequency of school shootings?" she asks, and they're back on track.
Monday is all email answering, and he ends up staying at the office until a mind-boggling 1:30 a.m. Tuesday they pitch Charlie on the special over a lunch of street hot dogs (they're not terribly good; Sloan ends up tossing hers because it makes her queasy). After they get the go-ahead from Charlie to put together a narrative outline, Sloan realizes she's borderline late to promo-filming and dashes off, her purse and coat swinging behind her.
He and Charlie linger. "Hey. I never asked. How was the honeymoon?" Charlie says. "No details."
"Relaxing," Don finally settles on, but with a shit-eating grin. They stand to walk back inside, and he knows he needs to bring it up. "Listen. I feel the need to tell you, because I respect you, as a journalist and as my boss but also … as a friend. I had lunch with Darrell Bradley on Sunday."
"He's … assistant director for national news at ABC, right?"
"CBS," Don corrects.
"Ah," Charlie says, knowing what's up. "He wants you to jump."
"He's got a job open. Politics director."
Charlie works his jaw. "That's a good opportunity, Donny."
"It is. You don't seem surprised."
"You're good. You came here good and seven years later, you're even better. It's not surprising," he says, his voice borderline sing-songing. He's half-sarcastic, but there's also some disappointment layered underneath that Don doesn't like.
"I … can't read you right now. Which I think is intentional on your part," Don rambles, trying not to sound insecure. Surely Charlie doesn't think he'd just abandon ship.
"What, would I be sad to lose you? Of course! I think you're an invaluable asset to this network, an intrepid producer, a first-rate mind, and you're going to go far, very far, in this business. Do I feel betrayed by you jumping ship? No," Charlie says.
"I'm not jumping ship. I'm considering my options!"
"Great. I'm saying you should. Entropy happens. Things change. With you and Sloan — things only get more complicated from here on out. Take it from me. You two planning on having kids?"
"Not for a while," Don says, suddenly unsure of where this conversation is going.
"I'm just saying, life gets messy, Don, and work, home — it's not a bad thing, to give things space. Good to let things grow. You think working together, raising children together, is going to be easy?"
"OK, this? Is an hourlong special, Charlie. We renovated a kitchen. I formed an opinion on jadeite cookware. Jadeite! And she agreed five hundred bucks was too much for a food processor," he says, suddenly unnerved.
"What I'm saying is, this is a good offer, and I think you should consider it. If you want to stay, yes, I will throw money at you. Does that make you feel better about yourself?"
"A little bit," he admits. He's not sure what to think, now. "Anyways. Sloan wants me to consider it. And it's an attractive offer — more money, bigger footprint. And if I don't take it, she thinks I'm staying for her, which doesn't make her very happy."
"And you want a counter-offer because you want to stay working with her and need something to tell her," Charlie surmises.
"Not so I can stay working with her. I wouldn't be staying for her," he takes a deep breath, and he's suddenly not sure what to think. If Sloan likes it and Charlie likes it, it suddenly feels like the world is spinning. "I'm letting you know out of a courtesy, Charlie. I need to know what my options are to weigh them. If this is it, fine, but I … need to know."
"I got it. Tell you what. You make it through this documentary with Sloan, and you still think staying here is a good deal? On your next contract negotiation, you can get a fifty percent bump, first dibs at a debate, and the assistant directorship of your choice on the national news desk." He stands up and tosses the rest of his hot dog. "That's a promise."
Sloan, somewhat unusually, waits around for him to finish Right Now. She swears she's just finishing emails, but he finds her dozing in his chair.
"You OK?" he asks, concerned. She's never tired. She wakes up before eight on weekends.
"Yeah," she says, slightly disoriented. "Let's go home."
They're answering emails in bed when Sloan says, "I never asked — did you talk to Charlie about the job offer?"
"I did, yeah," he confirms, finishing an outline of the next show and hitting send.
"And?" Sloan prompts.
"He wants me to think about taking it," Don answers honestly.
"He said that?" Sloan's surprised. "He didn't, you know…" She pantomimes blustery pouting.
"No. He's … He's willing to offer me a salary bump to stay, but he also said that I — that we, actually — should consider it. To, you know, get some space."
"What?" Sloan asks.
"He said, marriage is complicated, and only gets more complicated. He wasn't … He was trying to be supportive. I promise."
"It's not like you produce my show. We barely see each other throughout the day."
"Weren't you the one telling me to consider it, and now you're all offended?"
"Because it sounds like he's implying we can't handle it! And for Christ's sakes, he's Will and Mac's number-one fan."
"You're really offended?"
"I'm just saying, who took nine years to get together, and who got married in ten months? Point Keefers. With an s. Plural Keefers."
"Right, they're such a model of success for working together," he points out dryly. "If anything, they're a reason to not work together, but they're also insane in general. Anyways. He thinks the special will be a good test. I still don't plan on taking it, because I agree with you, but that's what he said. And you asked, so —"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," she slouches down on the bed, transitioning to sleep. "I had a third irrational option, you know."
"What?"
"Yesterday. When I was naming all my irrational options."
"Alien invasion?"
"No."
"Secret affair with Mac."
"No," she says. "It was that you didn't think you deserved it, honestly." She stares at him. "It still seems strange, to me, that you would turn down an offer that is exactly what you want and need for your career path. So I was worried you … would decide you didn't earn it, that you hadn't … atoned for any sin you thought you committed. Or worked long enough. Then I decided that one actually was too irrational."
He's quiet, because in a world not so different than the one they live in, it's a pretty realistic scenario. But not this one. Not this one, with her and them and what they've built. "I haven't thought that way … for a while," he points out.
"I know," she says, leaning up for a kiss. "And you never … worried about that, with your job. Just with everything else. But that's what concerned me — I was worried that a … complex … had developed?"
"A 'complex'? That's borderline emasculating." Only women — and Will, of course — get complexes.
"You know what I mean," she said.
"I do, and I get it, but I promise you. No."
"I know," she says reassuringly, reaching out to stroke his face. "I do. I … understand. Now. It was just, I firmly believe you deserve every opportunity that comes your way, and if you get to think I'm impressive all the time, I reserve the right to think you're pretty awesome, too, Keefer. And you deciding to turn down a position that you should, on paper, accept on the spot …" she sighs, as she articulates her thoughts. "I wanted to do the good-wife thing, be supportive, co-sign your decisions. But it also meant helping you make the best decision for your career."
"Not for my career, for me. Which is also, not coincidentally, for us," he says. "Yeah, on paper, it's the job that five years ago I would want. Hell, two years ago — absolutely. But I want other things now too, not just personally but in the job. And this is what I want and where I want to be. I …"
"Changed, Don, the word is changed," she says, amused when he can't say the cliche.
"Right," he smirks. "Anyways. What Charlie is offering is way too much, and I'm grateful. But what I want for a job isn't going to be the same today as it will six months from now, and …" he shrugs. "I guess we'll have to deal with that, then."
She nestles sleepily into the bed. "You remember when we talked about stocks?"
"Uh, you're going to have to be more specific, Moneyskirt."
"You said it wasn't a stock to pick, it was someone to pick stocks with," she yawns as she fits herself between and next to and on top of him. "You were right." With a ghost of kiss to his breastbone, she's asleep.