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Dan's stuck in stasis, he's a suspended version of himself at thirty. Every moment since inarguably enabled by that point, the moment everything skidded to a halt and readjusted, his existence reshaped like fucking Play-Doh.
It went like this:
Amy spread naked on crumpled sheets, poor lighting remaking splayed blonde hair around her head into a halo, smirk affixed, gaze heavy and all her attention finally, finally on him. He'd worked relentlessly for that one unending moment, and has worked relentlessly since, craving just a glimpse of that expression once more, mocking and expectant and controlled, but — satisfied, as if it had been just a culmination of the natural course of events.
Not even the promise of his name attached to Selina Meyer, 45th President of the United States of America has driven him quite so fervently. Amy was either Mary Magdalene or Judas Iscariot, he hasn't decided. Either his saviour or his executioner, but the pin in the grenade every time.
Without contention: she's the eye of the storm, the planet he orbits, the moon and the sun and the fucking stars in the sky.
She's the Blackberry charger and the Senator's extramarital affair, cached Internet pages and Florida's swing vote, an opposition intern's nervous breakdown and Jonah's pavlovian frightened grin in one mirage of a woman, hair smoothed and high-heels sharpened to alarming perfection.
As such, every moment after owes itself to Amy, and even Selina becoming president fails to take gold in the unending competition for Dan Egan's greatest moment. Even Amy turning to him, Selina's future on curling lips and something exploding behind her eyes, has to be held up to the light to deduce its real worth. Selina's inauguration has all the promise of that greatest moment: his face in the background of every news channel, his words swirling around Selina's mouth, his grubby fingers smeared on every newspaper from DC to CA.
However, upon closer inspection in the sun, cracks appear: something is obviously missing, something that's eluded his grasp at every turn. Every leap of his heart, every camera-polished smile and every extra line on his résumé has to be deconstructed, analysed and carefully pieced back together in search of it. Dan is a busy man and his best is not always good enough. Selina's presidency is no different.
Dan's stuck in stasis, a suspended version of himself at thirty. He'd had plans —
He didn't end up in Selina Meyer's office by accident. With enough encouragement, Senator Hallows could have stowed him into the Oval Office — he knows he's sleazy enough for Big Boy Politics. It's part of his charm. No self-respecting politician dreams of working for the Veep, though it's something he has a hard time admitting, when the night turns to morning, Selina slams the door in his face again and he needs it all to have been worth it.
But who really needs dignity and success when you can have the fear of the West Wing and Amy Brookheimer two steps ahead of you in a pencil skirt?
Amy probably knows it too. No, fuck that, Amy definitely knows he could be anywhere else, because she knows everything: Catherine's blood type, the names of Danny Chung's immediate and extended family, Dan's five-year plan before Selina had strolled into Hallows' office talking about sweeteners, entourage and Amy in tow. She never forgets.
(For that reason, Dan knows Amy remembers. He takes pride in the fact that nothing else can be blamed for the scarlet flush of her cheeks that night, spilling like wine down her neck and onto her chest, no empty whiskey bottle knocking between their feet. The only time he's ever beaten Amy, really — tricking her sober, so he can say, with confidence, that he is burnt into her consciousness somewhere, if only a fraction of her presence in his.)
Dan's stuck in stasis, and that — that is not the problem. The problem is that hours and days and weeks have passed him by. His North Pole was ruthlessly pinned down and a flag erected without him even realising, the compass that spun uncontrollably suddenly magnetised irreversibly, and before he knows it, people think he's loyal to Selina Meyer.
He'd had plans, he was never loyal. He did not care about his party, the country or its new Queen, but it seems that as long as Amy stands beside her, he'll never be able to leave.
Amy's the fucking devil in disguise, all expletives and high-waisted skirts to distract you.
So, upon comparison and inspection, Selina becoming the first female president, cannot, in good conscience, be named one of Dan's greatest moments. It beats 96% of the sex he's ever had, yes, and probably 98% of the sex he's never going to have. At the end of the day, however, it's just another line on his résumé, because —
It's missing something.
Dan has no time for anything less than the be-all and end-all (his elected president standing on Oval Office carpeting, smiling to the nation, her Campaign Manager dressed in scarlet to her right, with nails sharpened to a point digging into his waist, maybe a ring on her finger — don't fucking ask him) when he's working on something more significant: slowly, surely earning all of Amy's scattered attention again.
Dan's stuck in stasis, but give him some time. He's working on catching up. The next time — when Selina's elected president — he'll have Amy by his side, and that fraying memory of her steady gaze in an over-heated Philadelphia hotel room, the never-ending curve of her calves, in and out of DKNY heels, her smirk and Dan's helpless attempts to win it — it'll finally pale to the present.