1. (And I think you know how I feel about you.)
When the door opens, Danny needs no more than an eighth of a second to see despair, fear, hopeless rage. Everything inside of him reaches out to the woman in the doorway, the one who was never meant to look this defeated.
But it's too late, because Gail senses none of this and cheers, "Bartlet for America!" Just like Danny spent all afternoon teaching her.
CJ stares at them for a split second. Then she's laughing - uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. And right before Danny's eyes, she's collapsing, raising her hands to her face, her laughter turning into wracking sobs.
Now that Mommy is crying, Gail is crying, too, the great wailing shrieks that are the particular privilege of being two. Danny raises his eyes in a silent demand of Heaven: What? I'm supposed to choose between them?
CJ steps forward, the tears still streaming, and reaches for Gail. "I'll take her," she says, and the evenness of her voice awes Danny once again. He's not fooled into believing the storm is over, but Gail is, and she begins to settle the instant CJ's arms enfold her.
"CJ," Danny says, moving into her space. She laughs and pokes Gail's nose lightly. "CJ, look at me."
She does not look, but she whispers, "Leo took me aside today."
Danny feels like he's been sucker-punched. CJ's life has been Gail and this campaign for four months. She's done nothing for herself. If Leo's let her go, he's going to have an angry husband to answer to.
"If we win the election, they want me as press secretary."
But this - this is wonderful news. This is what CJ's hoped for all along. At least, Danny thought it was. He knows he's clueless, as men so often are, but he thought he knew his own wife better than this. "So...those are happy tears?" He tries for exaggerated hopefulness.
"No, Danny, they're not." CJ's eyes slice through him like he's made of soft cheese. "They're tears of - why would they do this? Why would Leo and the governor offer me this when I can't take it?"
"Of course you can." Stunned, he leads CJ and Gail into a chair. "Why would you say you can't?"
She stares at him. He has seen this stare leveled on half a dozen reporters over the years, and he's vowed never to be on its receiving end. He never has - until now. "You, Danny," she says. "I can't take the job because of you."
"I have a job, thanks." The joke is wrong - dear God, the joke is so wrong - but it's easy, and that's all he has reserves for.
"Don't be cute," CJ snaps, shoving her hair off her face. "How would it work, the President's press secretary married to the Washington Post's chief White House correspondent? It wouldn't. They'd accuse you of going too easy on me. They'd accuse me of giving you advance word on big stories. And God forbid there were a leak--"
Danny puts his hand over CJ's shaking one. "CJ? We'll make it work. There has to be a way."
"How?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But I do know that I'm not about to let you pass up the opportunity you've been waiting for since the instant you signed on with Bartlet's campaign because of me." Leaning forward, he kisses her forehead, his free hand rubbing Gail's back as if this somehow cements his promise. "I won't let that happen."
CJ sniffs, and nods, giving him a watery smile through the tears that have almost stopped falling. He smiles back and stands. "Dinner'll be ready in about ten minutes," he says, moving toward the kitchen.
He won't tell her about the editorial position. He won't mention it until he's talked with his bosses at the paper, until it's a done deal. Until he's sure he's exhausted all of his other options. Because he's a reporter. He's a damned good reporter, and he doesn't want to be an editor. But he will be, if he has to.
For CJ, he will be.
2. (And I like sports, though it turns out, not as much as I'd thought. But that's not the point.)
"The advance scout!" Don grins as Danny enters the Black Sheep. Don's already pulling out the Jameson. "Pitched one hell of a game tonight, I hear."
Danny returns the smile wryly. "Now, how would you know that so fast?"
Don jerks his head. "Some gorgeous ladies at the end of the bar." He slides Danny's drink across to him.
Danny turns - and beams. Wendy Galway, Sandra Lentz, and Stacey Gelbert, the wives of, respectively, the catcher, third baseman, and left fielder of the Martinac Auto Body Mustangs. He points at them around the side of his glass. "Traitors." He winks at Don. "I'm claiming the table."
The Mustangs (last place in their division) have a table permanently reserved on Thursday nights. Danny is settling into one of the red vinyl-covered chairs when his teammates start arriving and badgering Don for their drinks. Every last one of them, when they reach the table, congratulates Danny knowingly and slaps him on the back. He's learning to be careful of his whiskey.
Danny thinks they must look mildly ridiculous: a group of doctors, lawyers, and mortgage brokers, mainly, pushing middle age, pretending to be jocks. The last season they made the division play-offs was the last season they had actual Martinac employees on the team roster. Still, when Stephens tells a dirty joke about Harvey's wife, and Harvey comes back with a crack about Stephens's three-inch dick, Danny can't think of any place he'd rather be.
Perry, the first baseman - and the only good player the Mustangs have left - stands and lifts his glass. Danny groans. The other guys quiet down expectantly. "A toast," he says, "to the man of the hour. To Daniel Concannon, Esquire, who finally gave Jack Fryberg what he's so richly deserved since high school: a softball in the nads."
The team erupts into raucous cheers, and Danny's back gets thumped a dozen more times. "It was an accident," he insists.
"Oh, you bet, Counselor," Stephens agrees instantly.
"And if that jackass tries to sue you, we're right there to back you up," Jason adds.
Shaking his head ruefully, Danny finishes his Jameson and stands. "I'm getting another. Anybody else need a refill?"
Twelve glasses are instantly raised to him. He laughs and heads to the bar, trusting that, after nearly a decade of coming in after every game, Don knows everybody's poison.
The TV behind the bar is always on. Danny seldom notes it. But tonight, as Todd's long fingers reach toward the channel button, Danny leans down the bar and calls, "Wait. Todd, leave that on a minute."
The gangly young bar assistant protests, "It's a White House press conference."
Don chuckles as he refills the team's drinks. "Leave it on for him, Todd. Danny has a bit of a crush on President Bartlet's press secretary."
"I do not." Danny's cheeks heat. "I just..." He shakes his head. "I can't imagine doing her job, day after day." The CNBC camera changes angles, showing the whole press corps, in addition to CJ Cregg. Danny gestures at the screen. "Or theirs."
"You've never thought of it?" Don cocks his head. "I seem to recall you were some great shakes in the high school paper."
Danny laughs. "Sure. In high school. But to do that job? No, I'm much happier as an attorney, thank you."
Don slaps the bar. "And a damned fine one you are." Grinning, he pushes the pitcher of Amstel and the tray with two whiskeys, two beers, and Tanner's ginger ale across to Danny. "You're a pretty good bar wench, too."
From the corner, Perry yells, "Hey, Concannon, we're not getting any younger back here."
Danny rolls his eyes as his fingers clutch the tray. "Thanks, Don," he says.
The words have never felt so genuine.
3. (And the Dallas Morning News!)
"Concannon, you like politics." Gordie, the assignments editor, bears down on him with a computer printout in his hands.
Danny's eyes narrow. "Live for 'em."
"And you like women."
"Slightly more than they like me."
"Terrific." The print-out becomes Danny's problem. "Go cover a rally for Meryl Halsley down at City Hall."
"Sure."
"Give me something good."
Danny rolls his eyes. "I always do."
As soon as Gordie's gone, Danny pulls out his cell and hits the first programmed number.
"Concannon."
He grins. "That's my line."
"Hey." Suzanne's voice warms instantly. "What's going on?"
Stuffing notepad, tape recorder, and pen into his bag, he says, "Gordie's sending me to the Halsley rally. Want to come?"
"I can't." He hears deep disappointment in her voice. Suzanne adores Councilwoman Halsley and desperately wants to be involved in her mayoral campaign. "Baker's out sick today, and I am up to my eyeballs in backlogged orders. It's going to be a miracle if I'm out of here by 6."
"Oh." He steps aside and waits for two people to get off the elevator. "I think I'm calling it quits for the day after the rally; I'll pick up Gail from daycare."
"She'll love that, Danny," Suzanne says. "Thank you."
"How else can I make her a hopeless Daddy's girl?"
Suzanne laughs. "I have to get back to work. I think the orders are reproducing while I'm not looking."
"You have all the fun. Love you."
"Love you, too. Enjoy the rally."
The rally is uneventful. No protesters, even. Meryl Halsley preaches to the choir for an hour; the Dallas Community Chorale sings rousing patriotic songs. Danny interviews one of the Councilwoman's aides, asks some pointed questions which are carefully and predictably glossed over. As he pilots his car toward the daycare center, he's already composing the article in his head. It'll be good. But probably not great.
Danny makes a detour en route. The teenager at the register of the Dallas News & Sports Source smiles shyly at him. "Afternoon, Mr. Concannon."
Danny nods. "Eddie." He pulls a copy of today's Washington Post from the rack.
"Anything else today, Mr. Concannon?"
Danny considers gummi bears. Then he laughs and shakes his head. Eddie looks at him. "I'm going to get my daughter," Danny says. "She doesn't need the sugar."
Standing on the sidewalk outside the store, Danny skims the first section of his Post. Suzanne doesn't understand why he buys it every day; would prefer he didn't. She's afraid it will make him regret the choices he's made - the choices that have kept him in Dallas and out of Washington.
And he'll admit that this isn't where he saw himself when he graduated from college. The White House Press Corps was always his ultimate goal. But a woman who's five months pregnant can't move halfway across the country, and a three-month-old baby can do it even less. By the time Gail was old enough that they could have gone, the Post position was long filled by some sharp-eyed opportunist from Seattle, and Danny had realized that he was happy enough at the Morning News. And that's how he's stayed. Happy enough. He's made the right choice.
Ella gives him the raised eyebrow when he walks through the door, but she says nothing as he walks into the playroom. The little girl with the red curls and her mother's wide hazel eyes looks up and shrieks in delight. "Daddy!"
Suddenly Danny has an armful of four-year-old. "Hey, baby girl." He kisses the top of her head. This. This is why he's not in D.C. She's worth it. "How was your day?"
And she's off. Gail can talk for hours on end about anything. Everything. Nothing at all. Suzanne says they should make her a lobbyist - right now. She'll talk any elected representative into submission. Danny notices the grass stains on her pant legs half a sentence before she mentions some bizarre game involving a dodge ball, a jump rope, and one of the Pike twins from next door (Danny can't tell them apart). He checks with Ella to make sure there was no blood involved, and then they're gone. Gail talks the whole way home.
The national news is starting as Suzanne comes home. Dinner is ready, and the article is half-written. Gail has stopped talking, because Danny put her in charge of washing the vegetables, and that takes all of her concentration.
"How are my two favorite people?" Suzanne asks.
"Hey." Danny kisses her.
She looks at their daughter, too hard at work on her task to look up. "Wow. Child labor, Concannon?"
"Yup," he replies unrepentantly.
They eat in front of the TV. Danny grins at Suzanne. His Post is safely stored in the briefcase. Washington is the furthest thing from his mind by the time the mediocre primetime drama they were expecting is preempted by an unsmiling President Bartlet.
"...eight years ago, I was diagnosed with a course of relapsing/remitting Multiple Sclerosis...."
Danny doesn't know he's dropped his glass. He doesn't hear it hit the floor and shatter. He's half-aware of Suzanne and Gail, both shouting for him. All he can see are the President's words, bouncing around the walls; all he can hear is the frantic rushing of the blood trapped in his body.
He's made the wrong choice.
4. (It’s time to talk to whoever it is you talk to.)
"Danny. You got a minute?"
Danny swears at the sound of the only voice in the Beltway that can melt the bottoms right off his shoes. Say no. Tell him no. "Walk me to my car." Josh grins and falls into step. Danny sighs to himself. Sucker. "Josh, the information I get, I have to print."
Josh looks at Danny out of the corner of his eye. "Do you have any information?"
This is the part of the game Danny's best at, and they both know it. "No."
"Would you tell me if you did?" Josh asks doubtfully.
"What kind of information?"
"You know what kind of information."
Oh, no, no, no. Danny's jaw clenches. You don't get to be coy, Josh Lyman. Danny stops walking. "Hey."
"You know no one knows where I got it." Josh sounds almost offended.
"You know in the highroad," Danny muses, "I’m not supposed to hand out any information I get."
"You’re right." And is that contrition? Danny and Josh have been dancing around this since the Bartlet administration moved into the West Wing, but Josh has never once apologized for any of it - and he'd certainly never apologize for doing his job.
"You know I’m right," Danny blusters, mostly to cover his confusion. "It’s not my job to help you out. As a matter of fact, I get fired from my job for helping you out." Back on firmer moral ground, Danny's voice loses its shaky edge.
"I know that," Josh says softly.
They walk silently for a minute, but Danny's lost this round, and they both know it. He stops walking and leans against the fence. Josh leans beside him. "Lillienfield’s a jackass, but he’s not stupid," Danny says. "He’s talking. He’s got something."
"What?"
Danny shakes his head. He's asked himself that question any number of times, and he hates all of the answers he's come up with. "Whatever it is, it’s small potatoes. It’s enough to get the rock rolling down the mountain."
"What’s he trying to hit?" Josh sounds truly scared now, and possessive, and angry, and Danny doesn't blame him. The rock is rolling toward something in his own house.
"I don’t know," Danny admits.
"Is it the nomination?"
"That’s what I thought too, but Harrison’s gonna sail by no matter what."
"Nobody said it’s Harrison."
Danny chuckles. "Yeah. Yeah. My point is this: he’s not gonna waste it on a done deal. He’s after something better."
"Okay." Josh moves away from the fence and smiles at him. That smile. Danny mentally shakes a fist at his watery knees. "Thanks." He starts to walk away.
"Josh, it’s one of those times, man," Danny calls. "Don’t screw this up."
Josh slows and turns. He looks thoughtfully at Danny. "See, I like goldfish."
Danny squints at the non-sequitor. "What?"
"Goldfish. Can’t get enough of them."
Well, knock me down with a feather. Is Josh offering him an opening? Is he inviting Danny, at long last, to move this flirtation forward? "Thanks!"
The teenager working the register tells him the goldfish's name is Gail. Danny has no idea how the kid tells one goldfish from any of the dozens of others in the tank, but if he says its name is Gail, then Danny will tell Josh its name is Gail.
His presentation is more brusque than he'd have liked, but he tells himself, repeatedly, during the strangled eternity of Josh's blank stare, that it's the thought that counts.
"What is this?"
"A goldfish."
"Why?"
"You said you liked them."
"I said CJ liked them."
Danny begins to fear he's done an exceptionally bad thing. "Last night. Right before you left, you said, 'See, I like goldfish.'"
Josh leans his chair back. "I said, 'CJ likes goldfish.'"
Danny's fingers tighten around the glass of Gail's bowl. "Why would I care if CJ likes goldfish?"
"Well, I know you're having trouble getting back into her good books. I thought you might like a chance to woo her."
Danny sinks into Josh's visitor's chair. A bit of the goldfish water sloshes onto his coat. "To...woo her."
Josh nods. "But you brought the fish to me instead."
"I thought you said..." His voice sounds faint in his own ears.
"Are you saying--" Josh swallows, looking all at once far less sure of himself. "Are you trying to woo me?"
"Josh!" Danny's had it. "What do you think I've been trying to do for the past two years?"
Josh goes dead still. He's like an energy void in the middle of the office. "Danny, you know we can't - I mean - because of the--"
"My job, and your job?" he asks. He can breathe again, because he knows now that Josh wants this as much as he does.
"Yeah," Josh whispers.
"Yeah, see, the thing is, I've thought about that. And I've decided that I really don't care."
"Really?"
"Really." Danny nods and then stands. "But I know you do. So I'm gonna go. I think I'll give Gail here to CJ."
"Whoa, wait," Josh says, and Danny grins. He figured that would get a reaction. "Give me the fish." Danny holds out the bowl, and Josh takes it carefully from him. He holds it up and peers into it. "You named it Gail?"
"The guy at the store did."
"Gail," he says thoughtfully, then nods. "It's a good name. Thank you for the fish."
Danny smiles. "You're welcome." He turns to go.
"Danny, wait." When Danny turns back, Josh beckons him closer. He frowns, but follows the crooked finger. "Thank you. Really."
Josh seems as surprised to be kissing Danny as Danny is to be getting kissed. It's a short one, but Danny feels sparks. Josh looks dazed when he draws quickly away. Danny knows he probably looks the same. "I should - I have work I should be doing," Josh mutters.
"Yeah." Danny says. "Me, too. So I'm gonna...go do it." He staggers toward the door.
"Oh!" Josh very nearly smacks his forehead. "I forgot - Danny?"
"Yeah?" Danny keeps his back to Josh this time. He doesn't trust himself to turn around.
"I meant the crackers. When I said CJ loves goldfish, I meant the little party crackers that are shaped like goldfish."
Danny turns his head slightly and grins at Josh. Josh grins back, and Danny's heart does a very cool swooping thing. "Well, then. Guess I'll be going back to the store before the first briefing."
"Bring me gummi bears," Josh calls.
And Danny will. He'll buy Josh gummi bears every day from now until the end of the term if that gets him back into Josh's office. If gets him Josh, it's a steal.
5. (Oh, I love Bermuda. I like the scooters.)
"I really appreciate this!"
The wind whips loudly in Danny's ears. "What?"
Chauncey leans forward and shouts, "Thanks."
Danny nods but doesn't answer. He's grateful for the excuse to be on the move. The vacation has been nice, and Bermuda is as close to Paradise as you can find on this planet, but he's feeling the itch. It's time to get back to Washington.
In the meantime, he'll drive Chauncey the six miles back to the airstrip for his cricket bat, and he'll relish the time on the road.
There are three men standing in front of the strip. The training team Chauncey's boss told him about. Except that these men are large and white. Danny frowns as he pulls the scooter up to the gate.
The largest of the men approaches. He wears a mechanics uniform, but he wears it awkwardly. It's not the uniform he's used to. "I'm sorry, sirs," he says. Danny's eyes widen - that accent walked straight out of the American South. "The airstrip is closed today."
"I just need my cricket bat," Chauncey says.
"I'm sorry, sirs," the man repeats.
Danny climbs off the scooter. "Come on," he wheedles. "We're all reasonable men. My friend is an employee here; he just wants his bat. Big game tomorrow."
"Then he won't mind coming back for it tomorrow." The man never moves, but Danny feels his presence expanding, sharpening. He's in attack stance. "During the training, no one will be allowed inside."
Crew training, my ass, Danny thinks. This man is armed. He's American, and he's armed.
"Is there a problem here?" A new voice - one of the other men from the road. The same accent. Army Rangers, Danny decides.
"Danny Concannon, Washington Post," he says. "What's going on here?"
The new guy scowls. "Press," he mutters. Louder, he says, "I'm sorry, Mr. Concannon; the airstrip is closed."
"My bat is in my locker," Chauncey says. "I know exactly where it is."
"See, there you go." Danny smiles tightly. "He'll be in and out in...five minutes."
"Mr. Concannon, if you and your associate do not leave immediately, we will escort you from the premises."
"You'll escort me from the premises?" Danny raises an eyebrow. "What kind of training team has the authority to do that?"
Suddenly there's a gun pointed at him. A very large, U.S. military-issue gun. "Please leave now, Mr. Concannon," the first man says, and the quiet menace in his voice cannot be argued with.
Danny takes a step back, moving toward the scooter. He holds up his hands. "Okay. All right. We're going. No need to start waving the weaponry around." He looks at Chauncey. Chauncey is staring at the gun, transfixed, shaking. Danny touches his sleeve. "Let's go."
As soon as they're out of sight of the strip, Danny pulls to the roadside and looks at Chauncey. "You okay?"
Chauncey's eyes are wide in his dark face. "What is going on there?"
"I don't know." Danny looks up the road and shakes his head. "But as soon as it's dark, I'm going back to find out."
This is not what Danny does. He's a member of the White House press corps. He covers CJ's briefings and President Bartlet's speeches and the latest administration doings. He doesn't skulk around in the middle of the night trying to find out what the U.S. Army is doing sending its Rangers to foreign airstrips. It's time for him to get back to the Beltway, ditch this crazy thrill-seeking. In the meantime, he might as well remember what he does for a living.
Right...there. The back gate Chauncey told him about. Danny grins and starts forward.
He barely has time to register that that noise cutting the night air sounds a lot like automatic weapons fire.
END