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Sloan wants nothing more than to get the fuck out of dodge and never look back. The only thing throwing a wrench in her wish becoming a reality is the fact that nobody’s leaving. In the three hours that have come and gone since she and Don watched an ambulance tear through city gridlock before making what seemed to be a much longer trek back upstairs, not a single person has gone home. In spite of the fact that her flight reflex is reaching critical mass, she’s definitely not going to be the one who makes the first move to change that.
She commandeers Maggie’s computer, pulls up a Times crossword that’s a decade old, and stares at a screen of empty squares for half an hour. (The timer’s mocking her from its corner, keeping track of her inability to engage in higher-level thought; she has to literally sit on her hands to avoid smashing in the screen with her fist.)
“You ready to get out of here?” Don’s voice comes from somewhere behind her and, apparently, he’s close enough that he can avoid yelling. She shakes her head but doesn’t turn, at the same time as, “Can I ask why you’re sitting like that?”
Extracting her hands, she spins her chair to face him, shrugging. “I’m cold.”
“I have a sweatshirt in my gym bag, if you want it. We should really go, though.” Don starts to follow his own advice, stops when Sloan shoots When has the gym ever been a priority for you? at him. (She’s gearing up for a fight.) His gaze shifts back in her direction and he discovers that not only is she not walking with him, she hasn’t moved a muscle. “So. Not leaving. Got it.” He nods once, accepting this development, circles so he’s leaning against the desk, an inch from her elbow. “‘Gym’ is an acceptable substitute for ‘duffel’. That was the intended connotation. No, I don’t work out on a regular basis, and I appreciate you pointing that out to the entire office.”
“Pruitt said no one leaves. As you can see - ” Sloan sweeps a wide circle with her arm, encompassing the room full of their coworkers “ - they’re all too busy toeing whatever line that asshole has drawn to be concerned with your lack of calisthenic habits. Besides - ” Her focus still intent on the task at hand, she keys in a few letters as she’s talking, slamming ‘Backspace’ when she decides they don’t fit as soon as they appear in their boxes. Don puts his hand over hers - the plastic's coming loose - in a gesture clearly designed to impart comfort. All the touch does, though, is get under her skin and make her more jittery than she'd been a second ago; she yanks away hurriedly, going back to her puzzle from hell while he peruses the scattering of notes that Maggie’s left abandoned across her workspace. “My earlier attempt at subversion was killer. Forgive me if I don’t feel like risking similar results in round two.”
“For a woman who despises puns, that was a decent one. A little morbid, but people deal in different ways.” Don doesn’t fully laugh - it’s not the time - but the beginning of one drifts into his voice. He glances up then, all amusement vanishing as he catches sight of Sloan's face – a face that’s five steps closer to crumpling than it had been the night she'd sent the broadcast audience running to fill in their information gaps with GoogleTranslate and a DVR.
“Shit. You think -” Don runs a hand over his head as he considers what exactly she does think, finally clapping his grip against his neck. Crouching next to Sloan's chair, he brings himself level with her and waits for her to look at him. “Let’s go to my office.”
Sloan nods slowly, aware that she doesn’t want to stay in her current spot; Don’s suggestion holds far more appeal than anything she’s contemplated over the last thirty minutes or so. “Lead the way,” she says, swiping her fingers under her eyes as she stands.
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Don’s hand brushes Sloan's arm as she sits on the edge of the nearest available chair. “You’re freezing. Sleeves would help with that.” Walking back the way they’d come in, he closes the door and tosses the sweatshirt he’d alluded to earlier in her direction.
Catching it neatly by the hood, she slides her arms into the sleeves but doesn’t pull it over her head, lets the bulk of it pool in her lap. “Well, the Weather Channel doesn’t correct for personal tragedy.”
“Since that segue’s most likely the best I can hope for, let’s talk.” Don clears a place for himself on the edge of his desk before he pulls her seat around to face it. “You are not responsible for what happened here tonight. The interview? Yeah, that was you. It was also Mac. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’m pretty sure they were backing it too.”
“Everyone being behind me doesn’t change the fact that they were behind me. I was the one on-camera. The one Charlie saw, that he listened to. Therefore, I, and only I, am culpable for this.” She glares harshly at him once she finishes. Her fists clench tightly and she inhales air through her nose as fast as she can.
Ignoring his sudden urge to put his desk between them - her body language screams: ‘I’m ready for a fight, sir. Bring it. (Don’t even think about calling me girl.)’ - before he says what he's about to, Don soldiers on. “The man was being pulled in a million different directions, Sloan. He was bound to run out of steam sometime. You were just the last in a long line of clusterfucks, and you have no idea how sorry I am about that.”
Don stands, moving forward to put his arms around her, but she twists away before he can make contact. What she offers next is a whisper, barely discernible underneath the grief permeating her voice and the tears she can no longer keep at bay. “I said I’d dance on his grave.” The words, once released, hang accusingly in the open space between them. She loses her composure completely at this point, alternately dissolving into laughter as the memory surfaces and hiccupping sobs as last year’s half-hearted promise collides with the present.
Don doesn’t laugh at her idiocy, doesn’t say anything at all.
Eventually, he pulls her into a bone-crushing hug. If this was a different day, any other circumstance, it might border on painful but, tonight, at this moment, it’s the most comforting thing in the world. “It’s not your fault,” he breathes against her hair, too many times to count. “You might not think so right now, but I swear it’s true.” He kisses her then, soft and deep, an apology in motion. “Besides,” he adds as they separate, “if nothing else, I deserve to shoulder some of the weight.”
Sloan tilts her head, soundlessly asking a question, nodding as she concludes, “Your midday jaunt to Jersey wasn’t to win big on the ponies.”
Don shakes his head in amazement. “You, my esteemed colleague and brilliant girlfriend, have clearly never been to Atlantic City, because the track you think exists wouldn’t fit between the slot machines and the boardwalk.” He stops, his tone losing its momentary infusion of brightness. “I told that girl to stay as far away as she could from us, screw the consequences.” The ghost of a smile crosses his features before, “I’d bet my last dollar that your decision to eviscerate Bree was brought to us by a similar mindset.”
“Screw the consequences,” she repeats with the smallest of nods. “What exactly did our profound wisdom get us?” She shrugs helplessly. “I know what it cost, but what do we get in return?”
“I wish I knew.” Don comes to stand next to her, pulling her into his side. “I’m taking the blame. I can do that much.”
----
Three days later, Don presses Sloan into a corner off the Skinner’s front walk. “Somebody want to – I guess I’ll be the adult,” Will calls after them, shutting the limo door they both left through but neglected to close. Walking past them on his way into the house, he gives them a look that’s equal parts annoyed and amused.
“That didn’t really play out the way we'd discussed.” Don waits until Will is out of earshot to start the conversation. “You were only supposed to start, because I was the one falling on the sword. Instead, you just kept yelling at me to tell him. Not very subtly, I might add. Not to mention, you basically gave yourself up before I even had a chance to do my full spiel.” He’s struggling to maintain a perturbed expression, the fact that the corners of his mouth are twitching upward every few seconds thwarting these efforts.
“I panicked, okay? When I panic, all bets are off. You know this.” Sloan's voice pitches high, grating in her ears, and she catches her lip between her teeth to cut off the sound.
“I don’t know what you were doing on the way over, but I would definitely say that you’re panicking now,” Don informs her.
“Nice. Thanks so much. Very supportive of you, Don.” Folding her arms across her chest, Sloan takes a step away from him, her gaze blasting into the bricks of the pathway, off to her right.
“I didn’t mean – It was just an observation.” Don holds his breath, cheeks puffed out with the effort, and eventually lets the air out slowly - like this will calm him and, maybe, her. “I know rage is your default, but this isn’t easy on any of us. You have to realize I’m just trying to be here for you.”
Sloan's anger dissipates in the face of his sincerity, and she sighs. “See? All bets? Off.”
“Hey. None of that was any worse than your typical Monday morning routine. I've got some news for you: It’s going to take a lot more than that to get rid of me, Money-Honey.”