Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maybe all we'll ever be to them in a hundred years
Is three minutes in a car, in a bar, that says we wеre here
If that's you and mе when it's all said and done
Hard not to see we're the lucky ones
Not everybody gets to leave a souvenir
We got time, but we're only human
We call it forever but we know that there's an end to it
You and I can dance our way through it
And I'll love you 'til all that we are is background music

Bradley is always teasing her about the fact that she doesn’t keep her electronics on silent, but on this particular night, Laura is grateful to hear the faint tone indicating that she has a new email.

She’s been waiting for this.

When a quick glance at the subject line ( FOR APPROVAL: FINAL WIJF AWARDS 2023 PRESS RELEASE) in the notification bubble at the top of her iPad’s screen confirms that this is, in fact, the email, Laura sits up immediately, reaching over to the end table to pull her iPad into her lap. The unexpected physical disturbance earns her a curious and only mildly annoyed look from Bradley who is laying across the couch, with her head in Laura’s lap. 

They are supposed to be enjoying a work-free Saturday evening, having just shared sushi from their favorite delivery place only a few blocks down from the brownstone that has gone from being Laura’s to being theirs, for much of the last three years. Bradley even agreed to watch the documentary on dark energy that Laura had been not-so subtly dropping hints about for a week ( a selfless sacrifice, the blonde just had to add). 

Much to Laura’s delight, Bradley had wound up enthralled with the documentary, and Bradley furrows her brow at Laura’s sudden movements disrupting it. 

Laura opens the email and begins to scan the press release, a strange sense of apprehension suddenly taking up residence between her ribs and traveling swiftly up her sternum to sit at the base of her throat, though she knows exactly what she’ll find at the bottom of this email. Technically, this won’t be made public until Monday, but she’s always planned on telling Bradley what’s enclosed in this press release at this stage. She knows that Martha, who’d sent this over to her, is just looking for one more copy check before she sets this e-blast to go out. Her sharp gaze skims over the first few awards and their recipients detailed in the release before landing on the fifth and final one. 

At Laura’s change in orientation, Bradley shifts her head and her attention in Laura’s lap. “What is it, Laura?” The odd tension Bradley can feel in her girlfriend’s body compels her to sit up beside the older woman, reaching her hand out to place it on Laura’s bare shoulder, fingers grazing the edge of her navy tank top. 

With a simmering excitement and pride, Laura readjusts her body, tucking her legs underneath her while turning more fully towards Bradley. 

“I have something I want to show you,” Laura starts, tapping the top of the screen so that her iPad will scroll back up to the beginning of the email. “It’s a little early—you’re not supposed to see this until Monday—but I wanted to be the one to tell you.” When Bradley looks at her apprehensively, Laura doubles down. “It’s a good something, I promise,” she says, urging the iPad into Bradley’s hands. 

Laura points to the lit screen, encouraging Bradley with a small smile that tilts to dimple her left cheek. She watches as the naturally defiant jut of Bradley’s chin tips down to read the e-blast announcing the recipients of the 2023 Women in Journalism Foundation Awards. Bradley’s eyebrows furrow adorably as she reads, then shoot up in surprise along her forehead as she gets to the section announcing the recipient of the Blakeley Award for Achievement in Public Service Journalism, and finds herself looking down at her own headshot, her own name bolded and underlined. 

Now openly grinning with pride, Laura’s excitement is stunted only seconds later when Bradley’s wide blue eyes and slightly agape mouth shift to a familiar expression that Laura commonly and lovingly refers to as a disturbance in the force . It’s a look that she has come to understand means something is happening in her girlfriend’s clever yet frequently restless mind, that doesn’t necessarily have a direct connection to her current state, but is pulling at the part of herself that is still that little girl back in small-town West Virginia. 

The skinny, loud-mouthed kid who fought boys twice her size to defend her younger brother, and who cleaned up beer bottles from the floorboards of her dad’s car before child protective services came over for a home visit. The little girl who had grown up into the stunning, vibrant, tenacious but oh-so tender woman in front of Laura, that she was endlessly lucky to call hers. 

In a familiar gesture that they’d established a few years prior, Laura reaches out to place her hand softly on Bradley’s knee, rubbing soothing circles into her bare skin. “Hey, Bradley. Where’d you go?”

Bradley doesn’t visibly startle, indicating wherever it was, it hadn’t been too far. She glances back over the darkened screen, tapping the iPad back to life, then meets Laura’s warm but still mildly concerned eyes. “It’s just—the Women in Journalism Foundation is giving me an award? Even when I dreamt way beyond what I thought was possible, this was nowhere in the vicinity.”

As Bradley reaches down and slips her fingers between Laura’s at her knee, Laura continues to watch Bradley scroll through the rest of the email, down to the section that the award ceremony will be held in about a month. And that means that Bradley has perhaps read the detail that Laura is only a fraction apprehensive about. The blonde looks up again at her inquisitively.

“This isn’t some bullshit award that the network pays a penthouse C-suite of old, straight, rich white dudes to hand me right before they toss me out on my ass, is it?” And that’s hardly the question Laura had expected Bradley to ask. Her girlfriend’s indignance and skepticism back in full force in the blink of an eye, Laura can’t help but belly laugh at the sincerity of the affront held in the lines by her eyes and mouth. She continues chuckling as she leans in to gently kiss Bradley’s lips, the sound vibrating between them before Laura pulls away.

“Hey, it’s not all that inconceivable. They tried exactly that with Alex back when she flew off the handle and announced I was the new TMS co-anchor.” Laura had heard the play-by-play from Bradley years ago back when they had first begun seeing one another. While Laura had been mildly impressed at Alex’s scheming, she had mostly just been pissed that from the very beginning, Bradley’s genuine talent, drive, and humanity had been used as little more than a chess piece in Alex’s and Cory’s games with the network. 

But that was water under the bridge at this point—mostly, after all that they’d been through. Alex had made a lot of effort with Bradley, these past few years, and surprisingly enough, had made some sincere effort with Laura herself. Laura still kept herself at a self-protective arm’s length, knowing her boundaries with Alex Levy were what kept their relationship amicable for Bradley’s sake. 

“Oh, I remember that quite well. I was there after all.” Laura watches Bradley’s jaw drop fully to the floor while she reaches for her glass of water on the coffee table. Sipping from it momentarily, she sets it back down as Bradley manages to regain control of her speech

“You were there? When—where?” They’ve been together for more than three years, and yet they must have never talked about this particular fact. 

“Yes, I was an invited guest. Really, I only attended to help keep Maggie from getting herself into trouble while presenting. But I did see this gorgeous, petite brunette looking a bit like a deer in headlights, and look at her now.” Laura pointedly drew her assured gaze down to the tablet still lightly balanced in Bradley’s hand and against her thigh. 

Bradley couldn’t stop the appreciative smile that spread across her face. Laura had always believed in her, even when Bradley didn’t feel she was giving anyone, let alone the remarkable brunette in front of her, a reason to. That was when it seemed to click that Bradley had still not finished reading the press release.

There was a tentative schedule of events in the e-blast, along with the announcement that the award ceremony would be held at the Edison Ballroom, and a list of presenters—with one name in particular standing out among the rest. 

“You’re going to be one of the presenters?” Bradley asks, raising an eyebrow at her girlfriend.

“This is why I wanted to show you this before it gets announced on Monday.” Laura squeezes Bradley’s hand. “I mean, firstly, I thought you might be at work when you got the news, so I wanted to see your face when you found out.” Laura grins at the way Bradley softens at that. 

“But the rest of the board thought it might be nice if I presented you with this award. I said I would, but I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Brad. I can tell them no, I have to send back my approval of this press release before this goes out.”

And Laura knows that Bradley might feel a little apprehensive about receiving this award in the first place, even beyond her own imposter syndrome rearing its head. Laura sits, after all, on the board of the Women in Journalism Foundation, and acts as one of the nominators for their yearly awards. So she’s relieved that the subsequent conversation they have about how, exactly, Bradley came to be given this award doesn’t turn into an argument. While Bradley still has moments where her insecurities flare up when she’s reminded how incompatible the life she now leads seems with her humble beginnings, Bradley’s formerly typical defensive reactions of isolating or lashing out have calmed down considerably, these last few years. 

Laura walks Bradley through how she’d come to be named as an award recipient this year, reassuring her that Laura had not somehow rigged the whole thing as some elaborate scheme to ensure Bradley’s number of award statues caught up to her own.

“I mean, it would be a colossal conflict of interest for me to have put you forward for this award, so in the interest of full disclosure, you should know that I didn’t,” Laura gives Bradley unequivocal proof that she had indeed fairly and overwhelmingly been chosen to receive the award, taking the iPad back from her and tapping through her cloud storage now to show Bradley her board bylaws and letting her read the extensive award nomination protocol as she pads to the kitchen to pour them some celebratory glasses of Bradley’s favorite cabernet sauvignon, from a winery they’d visited on their most recent road trip out to the ranch in Montana. 

The Board of Directors was made up of Laura and 11 other members who had five awards to confer every year. Laura was expected to submit three options per award. Any overlap automatically made it to the next round of deliberations, and then they hashed it out from there. For this award, when Bradley had appeared on the first ballot of several other board members, Laura had recused herself from further voting for the Blakeley Award in accordance with the Foundation’s conflict of interest policy. 

Bradley’s string of monumental, complex, and painstaking investigations into powerful men who built empires in politics while simultaneously covering up what amounted to be hundreds of sexual harassment and sexual assault allegations spoke for themselves. Or rather, the sources who had trusted Bradley with their stories had spoken for themselves, and Bradley had made sure as many people as possible heard them loud and clear. 

Returning to the living room with two glasses of wine, Laura catches sight of the look of realization and acceptance finally settling into her girlfriend’s petite frame. 

“Here.” She hands one of the glasses to Bradley as she returns to her seat beside the impressive, astonishing woman. Bradley takes the glass tentatively, an excited smile finally stretching across her face. Their eyes meet over the soft clink of crystal. “Congratulations, my love. You deserve this.”

Laura takes a sip of the wine, letting the cedarwood and white chocolate notes settle over her tongue and warm her from the inside along with the thoughts of Bradley getting the public recognition for something Laura watched her devote so much care and effort to. Bradley had sacrificed so many hours of sleep for this series of stories, not to mention other stories that could have been considered more immediate and flashy, including quite a bit of the coveted Presidential election coverage she’d been vying for from the very beginning of her time with UBA. 

She knows how much an award like this means to Bradley, even if Bradley has yet to voice it aloud. Her reaction earlier—saying it was more than she’d thought she’d ever receive—is only a piece of Bradley’s thoughts and feelings on the matter. After the press release is actually dropped on Monday and networks, news outlets, peers, friends and family get wind of the news of this award, the rest of Bradley’s swirling thoughts will coalesce into a more cohesive understanding of how each moment, each setback, each job, each family derailment, each small victory, each high and low had been battles lost or won but that she is loved deeply and valued immensely in so many ways. Laura will always make damn sure of that. 

Bradley also looks to be considering something deeply as she takes a more substantial drink of the deep red liquid and tilts the glass, then swirls the wine around for a few seconds creating a small tornado at the bottom of the depression. “Are you going to say something like that when you give me the award? Because I have a few notes. You might want it to be longer.”

And Laura laughs, relieved that Bradley tacitly approves of Laura presenting her with the award. “I’ll work on it,” Laura promises. 

The weeks leading up to the award ceremony are slightly more hectic than either Laura or Bradley anticipated. Once the formal announcement and press release happened the following Monday after Bradley received notification, her phone blew up with congratulations from UBA leadership, colleagues, and friends in the business. While the award was prestigious, and Bradley fully understood the honor of such recognition, it just wasn’t something that many outside of media and journalist circles knew much about. 

This would have normally meant that Bradley would receive a few interview requests and nothing more. However, due to the explosive nature of the reporting she had done that had been the catalyst for receiving the award, all of the stories were experiencing a little resurgence in the news cycle, creating a bit of a firestorm regarding requests for interviews, talk show appearances, and much to Bradley’s acute indignance, paparazzi. 

Returning to the brownstone one night after dinner with Mia, Daniel, Gordon and a few others from the network, Laura sees three very conspicuous buzzards with cameras loitering a few cars down from their front door. She has her arm around the back of Bradley’s shoulders, and she tries steering the diminutive woman in a way that keeps her own taller frame between the cameras and her girlfriend. Her attempt to keep things calm and normal is thwarted by one of the photographers, who apparently has a death wish when he calls out to the pair.

Laura’s grip on Bradley’s shoulder tightens as they make their way up the few steps to their front door, but Bradley turns her head, catching sight of all three paparazzi as they move forward to get photos of them on the front stoop. Bradley’s face twists immediately.

“Ignore them, Brad.” 

Getting the keys out of her jacket pocket, Laura unlocks the front door and they’re just about to step inside when one of the other photographers yells out, “Does it feel nice to get an award for ruining men’s lives, Ms. Jackson? Do you get off on hating men and making it harder for the rest of us? What, you turn gay and all of a sudden we’re all predators?”

Even Laura finds it difficult to keep from confronting the assholes who are just trying to get a reaction from them. They’re trying to catch video of Bradley or herself having some public meltdown, something that can be used to dismiss the veracity of their work and the credibility of hundreds of women who came forward thanks to Bradley’s reporting. 

Before Laura can react, Bradley has dismissed them with a loud “Fuck off!” and stepped inside their warm foyer, tugging Laura’s hand as camera flashes brighten the night sky behind them. They remove their coats and hang them up in the closet, stepping down the short hallway into the living room. Laura can feel the tension in her shoulders ease the moment she puts her bag and phone down on the coffee table. This place, her sanctuary, had turned into theirs, even before Laura had asked Bradley to move in two years ago.

She hears Bradley’s deep sigh from behind her, and Laura turns, stepping into the heat of Bradley’s form and Bradley to her by the waist, their bodies flush. Laura pushes a soft strand of her chestnut brown hair away from her neck. “All things considered, I’d say that was some impressive self-restraint, Jackson.” 

Bradley brings her hands up to lay on either side of Laura’s neck, finding comfort in her partner’s solid and placid demeanor. Despite that, Bradley does note the speed of the pulse at the base of Laura’s throat. Unlike early on in their relationship, Bradley knows Laura well enough by now to be able to tell those interactions do in fact upset Laura. If Bradley can keep her cool, it’s a lot easier for her to pick up on the more subtle, nonverbal signals that the older woman’s body gives off. 

“Are you okay? It’s been a while since we’ve had to deal with that bullshit.” Bradley’s thumb rubs gently along Laura’s collarbone. 

Laura leans down and kisses Bradley’s forehead, the distinct smell of French lavender shampoo permeating her senses. “Thank you for checking in but yes. Other than being tempted to kick that mouthy one in the balls, I’m good.”

“Always with the threats of kicking men in the balls, Peterson.” 

“Only when absolutely deserved.” Laura pointed out, much to Bradley’s amusement. “Are you okay, honey?” Searching Bradley’s big, expressive blue eyes, Laura knew what the answer would be. After almost four years together and a lot of hard work (work, she reminded herself, that was still ongoing), they were in a place where she didn’t have to ask but made sure to do so anyway. It was too easy to rely on old patterns that did neither of them any good. 

“I just wish my getting an award didn’t mean another round of everyone trying to make me the story instead of the actual damn story.”

“Is that why you haven’t chosen which of the interviews to take yet?” 

Bradley scoffs, betraying it was at least part of the reason. 

Stella and Gayle had been discussing the long list of media requests that had come in over the last week after Bradley’s show had come down this evening and Laura had arrived at the studio to pick her up for dinner. 

Bradley has been at the helm of Power & Politics for only a few months now, but it is quickly becoming one of the highest rated shows in the 5 PM hour across networks. Not only has UBA wanted her to do as many interviews and shows as possible to capitalize on that momentum and grow the ratings even more, but the talks to coordinate the award ceremony with some of Bradley’s upcoming high profile interviews made her feel uncomfortable. 

Laura raises her eyebrow knowingly as Bradley expresses her reticence. They move to the kitchen while Bradley puts away their leftovers from the restaurant, gets the coffee pot ready for tomorrow and works through her concerns. Laura sits at the counter listening and sipping a mug of tea. 

When Bradley seems to have lost steam and settles against the counter, turning to meet Laura’s gaze, Laura tilts her head just slightly, taking in the way Bradley considers everyone’s reasoning and rationale for their behaviors and decisions while trying not to minimize her own. 

“Bradley, you’re not in the same place you were when you were starting on The Morning Show. You have power here. You know this. You can absolutely control the narrative the way you want and give UBA what the network wants.” And she pauses, for a moment, before her next suggestion. “I’m also pretty sure you have friends and connections now that would actually be helpful for this exact endeavor.”

A crooked grin breaks out across Bradley’s face as she realizes what Laura is alluding to and suddenly an idea springs to mind. Slipping her cell phone out of her back pocket, Bradley shoots off a quick text to her friend and former co-anchor to give her a heads up that she’d love it if they could chat tomorrow. 

Laura can’t believe that she’s willingly suggesting that Bradley go on Alex Levy’s podcast. But 14 million listeners per episode on a podcast that is nearly 3 years old is nothing to deride, much as Laura would love to do that. Especially when Alex is beating out other giants in the medium, giants who are mostly white, straight men pretending to be experts in public health, politics, economics and a host of other areas while simultaneously spreading misinformation and disinformation in times that require far better. 

Laura has to pull herself back from that particular cliff in her mind so that she doesn’t get riled up unnecessarily. 

“You’re so smart, babe.” Bradley hops giddily around the counter to lean over and kiss Laura softly, drawing the dark-haired woman back to the present moment. They head to bed shortly thereafter.

Bradley ends up deciding to do more than just schedule an interview with Alex on her massively successful podcast. She agrees to two late night talk shows—Stephen Colbert and Seth Meyers, naturally. Then, she makes the rounds on TMS, The Kelly Clarkson Show and pops over to Samantha Bee’s hour long political satire on UBA+. A handful of print interviews also get added to the mix, and her team seems satisfied, until she drops the bomb that her interview with Alex is happening and is not just a tease to get them to back off adding more events. 

No longer being under the UBA banner and the restrictions of The Morning Show did wonders for Alex, not only career-wise but in her relationships as well, including with Bradley. Although things continue to be rocky between Alex and Lizzy (in the way, Bradley assumes, that all mother-daughter relationships get strained, although she admits that she’s never really had an example of a functional mother-daughter relationship) Bradley can tell that Alex is still working hard to mend fences. 

Now, Alex has a whole studio and production team to herself. Alex is the star of her own show, and even better, she didn’t need to be up at 3:30am to blast her voice and the voice of her guests out to millions across the world, her reach broader now than she’d ever managed at her peak on TMS. 

“That’s kind of scary if, like me, you know you.” Bradley teases Alex, who immediately rolls her eyes as they make their way into her studio, taking opposite sides of a large oval table, multiple mics and headphones lining one side, the other with a larger setup that also includes 2 computer monitors for Alex to use as she records. 

Alex steps over to her captain’s chair, taking a seat and donning her glasses, the large bulletin board beside her covered in photos from her 20 year career including photos with Lizzy, Bradley, her former TMS crew, and one birthday photo from early on in her TMS tenure, where Mitch is conspicuously in the back. Alex’s former assistant turned-executive producer, Isabella directs the production and sound assistants to sound test from behind a large glass window along the wall behind Bradley. 

Once all mics and earphones are confirmed to be working, the light signaling that recording has begun turns red at the top of the door and Alex’s pre-recorded intro that Bradley has heard at least 100 times by this point, starts playing. They share a familiar, practiced glance that carries the weight of their history and the lightness of who they are to each other now outside of work. They’re important friends and good friends. 

It was easier than Bradley had anticipated to get back into their rhythm as Alex started with questions about Bradley’s political show, the guests upcoming and some of the stories that they were working on that she could share without Gayle or her executive producer Elena reaming her out later in the day. 

Alex then transitioned to the news of her award and reviewed the impact of not only Bradley’s work investigating the former Speaker’s actions, but how Bradley had laid the groundwork for this kind of story years earlier, the morning they’d taken the TMS broadcast hostage only a month after Mitch was fired. 

Alex’s book that had been published just over a year earlier had told the truth, as much as either of them was comfortable with, regarding the actual events leading up to and following Fred Micklen being pushed out. In speaking with Alex, Bradley was able to walk the thin line of criticizing the network she was still currently with, while also discussing the actual substantive changes that had been made since, knowing that she and her team had met with UBA’s attorney’s an obscene amount of times to hammer out a compromise on talking points for any and all media appearances. Bradley would not sign a non-disclosure agreement or be gagged and had the leverage at that point to lean in to turn as she was compelled to do, while understanding it did her no favors to burn down the UBA building with her inside. 

Alex understood the game more than most and didn’t push too hard when Bradley pivoted to the bravery of the women who had come forward to tell her their experiences, even when doing so meant public ridicule and attacks on their integrity. Before Bradley knew it, they were wrapping up their hour, while reminiscing on some of their lighter moments together recently, including dinner and karaoke that they’d dragged Lizzy and Laura out to. 

“Lizzy is still talking about our rendition of Take Me or Leave Me,” Alex baits her, and Bradley rolls her eyes. Bradley knows as well as Alex that that would get her listeners all abuzz.

Bradley knew that Alex was trying to bring a little bit more of her personal life onto her show. Was it for ratings? Maybe. But her producers and production assistants swore the audience wanted that personal touch from her, not the varnished and carefully manicured version she’d thought they’d wanted until her bout with COVID and her stream of consciousness livestreams. 

“Laura has mentioned it as well,” Bradley says “She certainly remembers it better than I do.” Bradley hadn’t been totally drunk—her tolerance was much too high for that to be the case—but she really didn’t require that much encouragement to get up and sing karaoke with Alex Levy of all people. 

But it had been one of the few times they had been out together over the past few years, certainly the first time Bradley had spent any extended time with Lizzy, who was home from college and was actually not fighting with Alex for one reason or another. 

“I’m still very disappointed Laura didn’t belt out a few tunes. I know for a fact that she has it in her.” At that, Bradley raises her eyebrow over the mic at Alex.

Alex shrugs with faux innocence and mouths What? as if she has no idea the line she is skirting.

Bradley is fully aware of some of the sillier excursions of her girlfriend’s earlier years in the business, experiences that for a time included Alex. But those stories are certainly not for public consumption in a conversation that doesn’t include Laura herself, and definitely not one that is supposed to specifically ensure Bradley and her relationship are not the focus here. 

“Well, she would’ve had to be incredibly intoxicated to willingly get up on stage and sing, but she was the one making sure we all got home safe that night. So I’d say it was a fair trade.” 

Alex rolls her eyes at Bradley not taking the bait, continuing her general protectiveness of Laura that Alex would never admit is actually quite sweet and enviable. 

They wrap up and end the recording, Bradley removing her head set, taming the disruption to her soft waves. 

“Nice try there, Levy.” Bradley takes a drink from her teal Nalgene she brought in with her, then slips it back into her black shoulder bag. 

“Hey, I have a substantial gay audience, and while I’m not jumping up and down to hear details about you and Laura—well, ever, I’d be shooting myself in the foot not to at least try.” 

Two production assistants come in and start working around them turning electronics off and tucking cords away. 

“Oh yes, Alex Levy, gay icon to legions.” Bradley sardonically quoted the viral Twitter post that had made its way around last year after she had done a podcast episode with the most recent winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race, alongside a companion video of Alex and the queen watching an episode of the show (Alex for the first time ever). 

“I very much like sharing my bed with Laura, and I don’t want your podcast to be the reason I have to sleep on the couch alone.” 

Bradley makes her way around the studio, saying thanks to Isabelle and the rest of the crew while Alex confirms her schedule for the next few days. They grab their coats and start to walk out together. 

“Not that I care about your sleeping arrangements at all, but would Laura really banish you to the couch?” Alex fixes the collar of her camel hair coat as they make their way down the hallway of the Spotify studio. While spring has made its way to the city, the last cold snap has made it just chilly enough, and as they step out onto the sidewalk, Bradley is also glad she made sure to bring her favorite gray tweed peacoat. 

“No, she wouldn’t actually banish me, just threaten. Laura’s a cuddler and she always runs a little on the cooler side…I’m basically her human space heater.” Bradley hears the sickly noise Alex makes at that answer and Bradley laughs as she looks down at her phone, seeing a few missed calls including one from the event coordinator from the WIJF, who she will call back on the way home. 

There’s also a text from Laura, asking when Bradley will be home so she can know when to start dinner. She can’t help the goofy smile that she knows is on her face, warmth blooming in her chest at the domesticity and normalcy of it all. She’s ready to go home to her woman. 

They hug goodbye, and Bradley thanks Alex for having her on the show. Bradley goes to step into the car she arranged to take her home but pauses when she notices Alex scratch her head and tip from one foot to the other, looking like she’s working up to saying something. 

“Alex?” Bradley turns back after signaling to the driver to wait a moment. 

“I’m just…I’m proud of you, okay.” Alex doesn’t make eye contact as the compliment comes rushing forth, and Alex almost looks shocked that she managed to get it out at all. “It hasn’t been easy for you. God knows I haven’t made it easy for you, but you’ve got your show that's really great, this award that you deserve, and I’m glad you found someone too. You’ve earned it, Bradley. Every bit of it.” She kicks a non-existent piece of gravel as her gaze glues itself to the concrete sidewalk, almost physically pained by the sentimentality. “That’s all.”

Because Alex is refusing to make eye contact, she doesn’t see the movement when Bradley sweeps her into a crushing hug before she has time to bolt. The older woman freezes for a moment then settles into the smaller woman’s frame and returns the hug. “Thanks, partner.”

After she leaves Alex, Bradley sits back in her ride and shoots a text back to Laura letting her know that she’ll be home in about a half an hour. 

While the driver navigates early evening traffic, Bradley decides it’s probably smart to return Nicholas’s call; the event coordinator for the WIJF left a voicemail needing to speak with her about the award ceremony. 

Nicholas advises he received the list of Bradley’s guests from attendees from Bradley’s assistant, Lily, and confirms that there will be two tables: one for herself, Laura, her direct team including Gayle, RJ (who was promoted to a producer on her new show), Mia, Elena, and Stella. The secondary table will include Daniel (who has been hosting TMS for a year now), Allison and a few of her other colleagues. 

Bradley checks for probably the third time if it is still okay that Laura sits with her instead of at the Board table, and she appreciates that Nicholas’s tone never hints at any frustration or annoyance when he insists that yes, it is more than okay. 

Bradley is a 43-year-old woman who existed with decent success before meeting her girlfriend, but even so, Bradley can’t imagine not having Laura by her side the whole night. 

They’ve done a few events together since making their relationship public, but certainly not a gala evening like this, with one of them being honored and the other presenting the award. Bradley can’t say it’s a dynamic she is comfortable with, and she hopes to never expose their relationship consistently enough for that to change. 

It’s not because she feels any shame or fear. Bradley invests as much time as possible ensuring Laura does not question that for a second. But she stopped feeling bad about her efforts to maintain their privacy, especially when so much of their life is out of their control, being public figures. With both of them having a history of being outed, her overprotective nature isn’t going anywhere. And seeing as this night is about the award recipients, one of them being Bradley herself, she is trying not to self-censor when it comes to asking for what she needs in order to enjoy it fully. 

They discuss the venue, the Edison Ballroom, which feels a little extravagant, but Nicholas expresses that in these post-COVID years, there is still reticence in packing too many people into a smaller event space. They’ll have photographers out front and then inside a short red carpet-style press line. Bradley notes this specifically for later, as her stylist, Jill, was on the phone to her almost immediately after the formal press announcement requesting details on press coverage and dress code to begin selecting options for her to wear. 

Blessedly, since it isn’t black tie, Bradley isn’t restricted to wearing a gown. It is, however, semi-formal, so a dress is inevitable. She can’t say she minds too much—Jill can be a bit overly persistent at times, but she has a great grasp of Bradley’s style, and knows when to push her on things she wouldn’t normally consider. Her first fitting with the rack of items that Jill has selected so far, is in a few days. Laura’s stylist, Sophie, has already confirmed her wardrobe because Laura is always much more diligent at planning than Bradley—much to Laura’s amusement and Bradley’s chagrin. 

“If you want to have your acceptance speech on the prompter, then we just need to have it two days prior to get things squared away. We can squeeze it in the day before but only if it is a page or less.” 

“Oh, shit.” Bradley forgets herself for a minute and clears her throat as Nicholas asks what she said. She scrambles to make an excuse that she’d dropped something. 

Why in the world had it absolutely not occurred to her that she needed to write an acceptance speech before now? They were only two weeks away from the event, and while she could craft one hell of a script with the heavy influence of her amazing writers at P&P, something like this felt completely daunting now. 

“How long are the recipient speeches usually?” Bradley asks, knowing that the answer is going to freak her out even more, but the need to know the expectations was greater. 

“Usually about five minutes 5 minutes, tops.” Nicholas says this, with such a light and nonchalant air that Bradley is seriously reconsidering all the credit she gave him earlier for his patience with her.

They finish the call a few minutes later and Bradley leans her head against the window as the lights reflecting off the Hudson flicker against her vision. She knows how much of an honor this award and this kind of recognition is. She’s been hopeful for some kind of industry validation of all of her hard work for years, even if she’d long ago given up on the possibility it would happen. 

However, the recognition isn’t what drives her passion for the work the way it does for others. Bradley is deeply touched that it is happening, nonetheless. This award is starting to feel real in such a way that Bradley’s thoughts begin to loop anxiously back around to questioning whether she has in fact earned the prestigious acknowledgment, as Alex had assured her earlier. 

She jostles back against the seat when the car comes to an idling stop at the front curb. A few years of ongoing therapy hasn’t stopped Bradley from having these intrusive thoughts altogether, but the therapy has certainly helped her develop ways to turn down the volume on those thoughts to a barely noticeable murmur. 

Once she thanks and tips her driver, Bradley makes her way inside and immediately smells garlic sauce, basil and something vaguely briny. She puts her coat up and slips her bag down on the chair in the living room before calling out to Laura and heading down the hall to find her.

Bradley smiles sweetly at the sight that greets her as she enters the kitchen. Holding court over the stove with burners alight and pans of what looks to be the components of shrimp linguine, Laura is a picture with a spatula in one hand and a cooking apron around her much beloved Eagles concert t shirt that is so large it covers the drawstring on her sweatpants. That same shirt is basically a dress on Bradley (or it has been, the few times she’s been sneaky enough to pull it on without Laura looking). 

Hair pulled up into a messy bun with a large clip and Prince playing low on the Bluetooth speaker, Laura’s dark strands frame her angular face as she looks up, meeting Bradley’s admiring gaze.  

“Hi,” Laura says, simple and warm, tucking the wisp of hair in her face back behind her ear.

“Hi,” Bradley replies, and even from that one word, Laura can tell that Bradley is holding on to some feeling that she doesn’t want to bring into the rest of their evening. 

Laura wordlessly decides to allow Bradley to bring it up if and when she would like, instead setting her spatula on the spoon rest by the stovetop and moving to pour her girlfriend a glass of wine. “How did the interview with Alex go?”

She hands the glass to Bradley and picks up her own as Bradley slips onto the stool across from her, then goes back to the simmering food. Bradley takes a moment to enjoy the sparkling white wine, cool and refreshing on her tongue. 

“It was pretty good, even kind of fun...like old times. It’s still slightly terrifying that Alex has like 14 million people listening to her every week, which is triple our best ratings on TMS and even more so my show now.”

“Are you jealous?” Laura jokes. “Or should I be worried that you’re about to make a pivot from broadcast to radio?”

Bradley sits up a little straighter, considering the question even though she knows Laura is mostly being facetious. "Not jealous…although that kind of viewership would get Stella off my ass about ratings for the rest of forever. And I don’t think radio would work for me, my surly nature as you so lovingly put it, tends to be positively offset by my disarming good looks.”

Laura picks up her spatula once again and gives the vegetables in the frying pan a stir. “I mean, it’s probably a flash in the pan for Alex.” She waggles her eyebrows, and there’s a beat while she waits for Bradley to acknowledge that she’d said flash in the pan while at the pan herself.

Bradley humors her with a small laugh, though, as Laura turns back to her at the island, she can see that Bradley is also rolling her eyes as she takes another sip from her wine glass. 

“That was pretty stupid, even for you,” Bradley says after she’s set her glass down.

“Yeah, well…” And Laura finds she can’t argue with that. “I put up with your ‘surly nature,’ you put up with my bad jokes.” And she scoops up the uncooked shrimp from the counter, then, tipping them into the pan with the vegetables. “Anyway, all joking aside, I doubt Alex is going to be pulling in that same number of listeners in a few years. You’ve been consistent, Brad, Stella understands the value in that.” 

Bradley doesn’t even realize that had been something she needed to hear until she can feel the tension in her shoulders slacken. Maybe she was jealous of Alex, if just for the security of not having to carry that consistent concern for ratings and success and longevity. Helming her own show and doing this kind of reporting was everything Bradley had ever dreamed of. But she was not quite a year into it and didn’t yet have Laura’s seasoned, unflappable confidence. Part of her doubts that she ever will.

But Laura is right, Stella and other UBA executives are more than pleased with the way things have been going so far and voice consistent support for how Bradley is steering the ship. Once again Bradley acknowledges Laura’s point, this time with a small hum before standing to help plate their dinner and bring it over to their small dining room table. 

They enjoy their meal, discussing their next trip out to Montana, tossing around some ideas for another trip somewhere warm and tropical soon, before the Presidential election cycle swings into high gear. After they finish and clear the table, sharing cleanup duties in the kitchen, Laura makes sure the front door and French doors are locked before joining Bradley in their bedroom to get ready for bed. 

Blessedly, one of the biggest perks of Bradley moving to a weekday nightly show is that they are now on the same schedule for the first time in the three years they have been together. Waking together and finally being able to align their evening routine and sleep schedules was turning out to be a boon to their already steadfast intimacy. 

Having stripped down to underwear and Laura’s well worn Northwestern shirt, Bradley finishes her skincare routine, then pads out of the bathroom and pulls the duvet on the bed back to climb in next to Laura. She glances over to her girlfriend briefly, noting that she is reading the recently published memoir of tennis player Naomi Osaka, her black-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose. Bradley watches fondly as Laura slips them back up the bridge and continues reading. 

She leans over to the nightstand on her right side and takes her iPad into her lap, adjusting the display settings to reduce the blue light, then grabs an Air pod to slip into her ear so as not to disturb Laura with the noise.

Bradley brings up the YouTube app and starts watching a handful of speeches to start getting ideas of how to approach her own. Unfortunately, most journalism related awards aren’t recorded in full to watch on YouTube, but she does find a few clips with highlights and the Women’s Media Center awards that aired virtually in 2021. She watches college commencement addresses by a few celebrities, comedians, and world leaders. 

The weight next to her shifts a moment after Bradley chuckles a little too uproariously during Conan O'Brien's speech, and Laura’s lean frame comes to press against her side, having put her book down to determine what it was that had Bradley so entertained. She can see in Laura’s expression that she’s a little confused as to the reason Bradley is watching this.

“I’m trying to get some ideas for my acceptance speech. I spoke to the event coordinator Nicholas on the way home and I had totally forgotten that one would even be necessary.” Done for the evening and hoping to get Laura’s thoughts on what her central theme for her speech could be, Bradley places the tablet back on her nightstand after powering it off and stores her Airpods back in the drawer. Laura is objectively the more skilled writer between the two of them, and she has been the recipient of multiple awards that required written remarks. 

Having had a few hours to consider it, Bradley is not as overwhelmed by the task as she was when Nicholas brought it up, especially since it won't be in front of a room full of strangers. The attendees will be her peers. Even if she doesn’t know every one of them that well, she’d still be acquainted with most of them in some form or fashion. 

Bradley tilts her head at Laura, a coy expression on her face that the older woman knows thoroughly to be one that she uses against Laura to squeeze her for information or compel her to do something she wouldn’t ordinarily do. 

“Have you perchance started writing your presenter’s remarks?”

And Laura laughs. “Oh, thank god, I thought you were going to ask me something else.”

Bradley pulls a face. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“For half a second there I thought you were going to ask me to write your speech on top of my own. But this is better, I can handle you just fishing for information.” And she makes Bradley wait for a moment before she goes on, a coy smile of her own now playing across her lips. “But yes, I’ve started. What would you like to know? I make no promises that I’ll actually divulge.”

And they both know that that’s a lie, they both know that Bradley absolutely has tactics at her disposal to make Laura reveal all of her secrets. But it’s fun, nevertheless, to play like this. Laura turns onto her side, then, so she can prop her chin up in one hand and look at Bradley more directly, waiting.

Bradley mirrors her movements by turning on her side, but instead of propping her chin up to meet Laura’s patient openness, she lays the side of her head against her palm and reaches with her other hand the small distance to play with the fingers on Laura’s left hand, no longer adorned with her onyx and gold ring. She tries not to get distracted at Laura’s cool and comforting touch. 

“I know that these stories were important and worthy of recognition, but I wasn’t the first person to tell them. I wasn’t even the only person who covered these men and their actions specifically. I guess I’m just trying to understand what I can say that hasn’t already been…for lack of a better expression, beaten to death.” She feels Laura squeeze her fingers as they intertwine gently. 

“Well, maybe don’t start like that ,” Laura chuckles, “but yeah, I get what you mean. I mean, I know you, so I know you’re going to do this anyway, but don’t overthink it.” And before Bradley can make a face at that comment, Laura goes on. 

“I mean, Bradley, how many times in your career have you been working on a piece and then another outlet scooped you or crashed your piece and you’ve wound up back at your desk trying to find a new angle so that you’ve got something fresh to offer? This award isn’t just about the content of the story, Bradley, it’s about the form —it’s the way you told it. You did something only you could have done with your coverage. That was what was impressive to me, at least—and clearly I wasn’t the only one who thought so, considering you got a whole Board to think so, without me even suggesting you.”

Despite the number of times Bradley has been bathed in Laura’s praise since the day they met, it still never fails to make her feel like it did all those years ago on a freezing night in Iowa, under the twinkling lights outside their hotel. Even better though, now, she is seen, known and loved by this woman in a way that Bradley’s heart fills to bursting knowing how lucky she is for this to be her reality. Because while her work and getting this story out were all-consuming and incredibly difficult at times, she had Laura every step of the way to run to and to catch her if she fell. Bradley doesn’t fall much anymore, but Laura is still there waiting, just in case, reminding her every second that Bradley is safe and protected. She knows she’s a better person, a better girlfriend, and a better journalist because of that knowledge. 

She has another thought, a sudden light bulb of a moment in her head about the speech, but Bradley knows she’ll be able to pick it up tomorrow and start writing. Instead of continuing their conversation, Bradley leans over and presses her mouth firmly against Laura’s, tasting their spearmint toothpaste, then pulls back and murmurs quietly against her lips, “You know, I think I’ll keep you.” 

“Oh really?” Laura inquires with an affected seriousness, glancing down to watch Bradley’s hand make its way under the hem of Laura’s shirt, tugging the cotton fabric over the curve of her hip, fingers glancing past the elastic of her underwear. Bradley nods and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as Laura shifts and allows the garment to be pulled over her head, exposing her to the warm air and dim lighting of their bedroom. Laura takes in the flush of arousal that has spread across Bradley’s cheeks and down the front of her chest before she leans over and shows her just how amenable an arrangement she finds being kept by Bradley Jackson to be. 

It takes her until morning before the award ceremony itself, but Bradley finishes her speech and lets Nicholas know that she would rather have the written version up with her at the podium instead of having it on the teleprompter. She realizes the award is for her work, but Bradley doesn’t want to feel like accepting it is work. 

Both Jill and Sophie already dropped off garment bags for both her and Laura, as well as accessories for the evening. Jill has Bradley repeat the designer’s name a handful of times because she so rarely has these moments to dress the journalist in more hip, showy dresses as she does for this. 

They decide having their makeup artists to the brownstone to get ready isn’t necessary in this instance, opting to do their own makeup. When Bradley sees the bright red lipstick that Laura has chosen to go with her outfit, she tries not to lunge at her, knowing her ivory skin will require far too much time to perform any needed touchups. Laura is placing the tube of lipstick, a small bottle of hand sanitizer and her remarks in her wide satin black clutch in the living room when Bradley comes out of the bedroom and the sparkle from her dress catches Laura’s eye. 

Laura’s voice catches in her throat at the sight of Bradley with her long, shiny beach waves tumbling over a blue-black sparkly body con dress that fits Bradley’s curves like a glove but is the perfect combination of sexy and professional. The long sleeves are offset by a shorter hemline that sits only slightly above her knees, but Bradley’s toned and tanned legs look almost endless anyway in black open toe heels with a slim strap around her ankles. “You look stunning, my love.”

Holding a mirrored box clutch at her side, Bradley smiles brightly, doing her own appreciative scan of Laura. They didn’t coordinate their outfits, but Laura’s black suit jacket over tailored black pants and a fitted lace camisole is muted and effortlessly stylish in a way that is attention-getting yet allows Bradley to be the star of the show. Her black, pointed heels keep their height difference intact, but Bradley adores the visual; loves this smart, strong and capable woman at her side. Instead of commenting directly, Bradley lets out a brief, low whistle and gets Laura’s deep, raspy laugh in response.

Checking that they have everything, and that the limo is waiting outside as scheduled, Bradley kisses Laura’s cheek, having foregone lipstick for a sheer gloss so that she only has to softly brush it off and successfully does so without doing damage to Laura’s makeup. 

Their ride to the venue is relatively quiet initially, except for the sound of Bradley rustling through her purse, double checking the few items she has including tissues, Altoids, a folded piece of paper that Laura assumes is her speech, lip gloss and her phone. 

“Are you nervous?” Laura inquires tenderly, knowing if they talk about it beforehand, it might help Bradley quell any last-minute jitters.

“A little,” Bradley answers honestly and shuts her purse, turning to angle her body slightly into Laura’s. “I know once we get there and start seeing everyone, everything won’t feel so big and surreal.”

Laura takes Bradley’s left hand between both of hers, massaging the tension and slight trembling she finds, then tips her chin down to meet Bradley’s eyes squarely. “I am so proud of you, Bradley. You deserve this, honey. And I have no doubt this award tonight won’t be the last.”

Bradley’s expression dips in that way that pronounces the dent in her chin. “Thank you.” She wants to say more, wants to again tell Laura how much she loves her and how she is trying to take in every second of this whole thing to hold close and remind her in times of doubt that she’s so incredibly grateful for where she is and who she’s with.

But she knows there is still a long night ahead of them and they’ll have time to themselves after it’s all over. And Laura doesn’t need more than the look Bradley gives her to understand that. 

They pull up to the venue and walk closely side by side into the Edison Ballroom, the flash of the photographers getting their entry and calling out for more, but the short red carpet inside is what Bradley’s stylist and assistant had directed her to take some time with. 

As they enter the venue, Bradley’s assistant Lily pops up seemingly out of thin air (as she tends to do) right next to them. There’s a bit of a traffic jam of people who have arrived and are making their way through the press line, which is a blessing in disguise, as it gives Bradley some time to observe the venue and see in the distance many of her friends and colleagues. She no longer feels like some outsider or fraud that is going to be found out and escorted off the property like when she was suddenly thrust onto The Morning Show. But sometimes the ghost of those feelings and memories come back just a little too strongly and unsettle her. 

Laura’s hand slips around her waist and squeezes briefly before Bradley feels a quick kiss at her temple. Neither are ones for public displays of affection, Bradley especially, but feeling Laura at her side, Bradley leans in to her touch, drawing that last-second injection of security she needs to be present. 

Lily tells them that Bradley can pick and choose which outlets she wants to speak with, but encourages her to give at least three a few minutes of her time. She also advises with a conspiratorial smile that a few j-schools have sent students to cover the event, including West Virginia University’s Reed College of Media. 

Eyes wide, Bradley stares at Lily before looking back to Laura, ”Did you know about this?”

Laura shrugs with an expression of manufactured innocence. "The board always invites students from a few journalism schools, but I didn’t know they would have students from your alma mater. I may have just suggested that they not limit it to New York-area schools.” 

Laura can tell Bradley doesn’t quite believe that she didn’t have a bigger part in making this happen but the line begins moving as the journalists who are here to cover this event realize that Bradley, one of tonight’s honorees, has made it to the short carpet. 

She and Laura shuffle their way to the center of the carpet, taking seemingly an endless amount of photos. First, it’s the two of them together, then Bradley alone as Laura steps further down the carpet and slips back into the shadows a bit. More Board members come up and crowd around for photos, as well as a few members of Bradley’s Power & Politics team and UBA leadership. 

Bradley goes to step closer to the press and their barrage of microphones and recording devices for interviews, but doubles back once she realizes that she’s alone, only to find Laura already making her way back over to stand at her side instinctively. 

She speaks to a handful of outlets, and Laura’s words from earlier in the week ring in her ear as she gets the same three questions over and over. The questions are not even regarding tonight’s awards and what it means for Bradley’s work, but are instead about the systems of power and powerful people being held to account. What responsibilities do journalists have to the accused? How does the media ensure the movement doesn’t go “too far”? Can the consequences these men have received and the way their lives have been “ruined” be enough to rehabilitate them in the eyes of the public? 

Bradley is hardly naive, and expected this to a degree, but she can feel the frustration and irritation working its way up the base of her spine as she spins the questions and reframes them as she had prepared with her publicist to focus on the women who came forward and their bravery in doing so, despite the crushing nature of the systems working to silence them. 

“It’s incredibly important to me that I ensure the accused perpetrators are given the opportunity to respond to the facts outlined. However, a central part of the way that I approach these stories is that I give a platform to those who don’t have the money and power to control narratives. I want them to be able to share their experiences in a way that honors how incredibly difficult it is to come forward with such painful situations. Interrogating the truth is my job, not deciding how to fix someone’s public image.”

She gives a tight smile and turns to move down the line but Laura’s warm palm comes to rest at the small of her back, steadying her and drawing away Bradley’s creeping defensiveness. “Do you want to finish up with the WVU students and then we can get a drink in the reception area?

Bradley nods, endlessly grateful for Laura’s ability to read when she needs permission to pump the brakes and regulate herself a bit. She sees the name card on the barrier near the end of the line and greets the group of three students dressed smartly for the evening, trying to balance their nervousness at the opportunity before them and the task itself. 

Deciding to break the ice a bit after getting their names, Bradley asks if the High Street Tavern is still serving their Munchie Buckets. The students immediately start conversing about the famously delicious combo of onion rings, mozzarella sticks, pepper jack cheese balls, and curly fries within walking distance of the college. Some days, it was the only nutrition Bradley got between classes, work, and her family issues. 

They trade anecdotes about food and the university, before one of the young women starts asking Bradley about her career trajectory and the immense work involved in these stories over the past few years. Bradley finds she genuinely enjoys retelling the highs and some of the lows, expressing in the way a teacher would some of the lessons that she had learned in hindsight and along the way that might be of practical use to up-and-coming journalists. 

When one of the students, Jasmine, asks how to build a relationship of trust with a source, especially when discussing such difficult things as assault and harassment, Bradley nearly tears up. She’s relieved and touched that such a critical part of her (and any truly engaged journalist’s) process is still being sought after as a foundational piece of knowledge. She tries not to go on for too long, but discusses how important it is to have a trauma-informed lens. She can’t help but think of Hannah Schoenfeld as she wraps up her time with them. 

Bradley knows she can’t protect everyone, let alone these three students, from making mistakes in their work but if she can at least impress upon them the responsibility that being an arbiter of someone’s most difficult, dark moments carries with it, then she’s done the best she can. They thank her for the time spent and Bradley pulls Laura up briefly to meet them. Bradley might be the star of the show this evening, but the woman is still Laura fucking Peterson, and the starry-eyed look they direct at her girlfriend as they get her autograph after Bradley’s is all the confirmation she needs that it was the correct move. 

“That’s it, you know,” Laura says as they start to make their way towards the bar.

“What’s it?” Bradley asks, not quite following.

“You, with those students,” Laura elaborates, angling her head back towards where they’d come from. “You put them at ease right away. You do that with every source you work with. I mean, I know those kids aren’t sources, but—hell,” Laura chuckles, “you do the same thing with me. That’s it,” she repeats, with a little shrug and a little smile. “It’s a perfect example of why you deserve this tonight, Brad.”

And then, after a moment, after another few steps, Laura adds, “I know when you’re doing your job, you’re inside it, so I know it’s hard to…it’s hard to know how you’re coming across. But trust me—everyone else can see the way you just… meet people where they’re at. It’s not something every journalist can do.” Laura smiles and bumps her shoulder against Bradley’s. “I hope you can see the effect you have on people too, sometimes. I just wanted to point it out for you this time.”

Bradley blinks up at Laura, taking in her words and considering how they line up with her aggravation as she spoke with the press line before getting to the students. The canned questions tried to lead Bradley into responses that either made for a good headline or reflected some version of the truth that was comfortably consumable instead of accurate or sincere. She’d spent so much of her life and career being told she was too much or pushed too hard and while she conceded a long time ago that she wasn’t going to change that despite it being perceived negatively, she had never fully considered how much of a strength it was that something that came so naturally to her couldn’t be so easily duplicated by others. She hadn’t realized that it could in fact be a unique part of what drives her so doggedly and passionately. 

And of course it’s Laura that brings her this kind of clarity in such a meaningful way, yet with an entirely casual disposition that leaves Bradley slightly baffled. She is not quite sure what to say in response, so instead she simply smiles and leads the way towards the bar.

They choose cocktails, Bradley a whiskey sour and Laura an old fashioned, then head to their table, near the middle front of the room. Mia, Gayle, and RJ have already arrived and stand to greet them both as they walk up. Bradley can’t help but squeeze Mia a little extra when they exchange a hug, fully understanding she would not be here tonight without her first producer’s tenacity and loyalty from the very beginning on TMS. 

Since she is one of the last awards of the night, Bradley is able to sit between Laura and Gayle, relax, and truly enjoy being with her team, celebrating their hard work and the industry they’ve dedicated their lives to. She is surprised by a few of her dearest influences that she has not met yet. They come up in greeting, reaching out to Laura, who is everyone’s friend, warm and welcoming immediately, then they turn to Bradley. When Christiane Amanpour congratulates Bradley and references her time moderating the 2020 Presidential debate in Las Vegas, she nearly tips Laura over into her smaller frame with the force she uses to pull her arm in childlike excitement. 

Bradley notes that the muscles in her cheeks will likely be sore tomorrow from all of the smiling and laughing she is doing tonight, but hell, they all deserve to feel this kind of joy. Bradley watches Laura laugh at something Daniel said to her, having come over from the other UBA table, and feels near overwhelming fondness seeing the two of them interact. They’ve built an organic bond over the years. She feels Laura lean back into her as she laughs, their arms brushing as she seeks out a touchstone in Bradley unconsciously. 

They whoop and clap for the other recipients and finish off their second cocktail before an usher comes over to the table and lets Laura know that she is up next to present Bradley’s award. She pushes her chair back to stand and shares a look with Bradley, their hands that had been tangled under the table against Bradley’s thigh now disengage and Laura’s hand slides up to grip Bradley’s forearm before she leaves the table and heads towards the stage. 

“Good evening,” Laura begins, once she’s situated behind the wooden podium. She’d been apprehensive at first about giving these remarks, about making this introduction. She’d been surprised that the rest of the board had wanted her to do this in the first place—Laura herself had been concerned about the optics of it all, with the whole room knowing that she and Bradley have been together for years. She’d pushed back, a little, against Martha, when Martha had asked her to do this.

“Won’t it look like Bradley got the award because she’s my partner?” Laura had asked, and Martha had looked at Laura like she had two heads.

“Laura,” she’d laughed, “I promise it will be stranger if you don’t do this. Everyone will be wondering if there was a reason you didn’t speak. Besides,” she’d continued after a moment, after Laura had nodded but still seemed to be waffling, a little bit. “Don’t you want to speak about her?”

And the answer, then and now, had of course been an unequivocal yes .

Bradley has always surprised her. While Laura knows that part of the reason Bradley has been so successful over the past few years has indeed been the amount that other people have underestimated her—because there is nothing that Bradley does better than rise to a challenge—it makes Laura cringe, sometimes, to hear the way other people talk about Bradley when they think that Laura can’t hear them.

And Laura has built her career on letting words roll off her like water off a duck’s back, but she can’t deny that there is always a part of her that wants to leap to Bradley’s defense when she hears someone underestimating her. She never does, of course. She holds her tongue. Laura is sure that Bradley wouldn’t want her to fight her battles for her, anyway, not when Laura is so certain that Bradley can hold her own.

But despite that, Laura can’t keep herself from wishing that she could make other people see Bradley the way Laura sees her. She wishes they could feel the way she does when Bradley manages to stop her in her tracks, even now, wishes they could catch a flash of the delight Laura feels when Bradley’s consideration and incisiveness surprises her.

She wants to tell them she’ll keep surprising you if you give her the chance. She wants to say it’s been three years and she can still get me . She wants to say I’m never bored by her, and you don’t know how rare that is. You don’t know how difficult that is to find.

And all that, of course, is inappropriate for Laura to say—both in those instances and now. But perhaps this is her opportunity to make an audience see Bradley through her eyes, if she can thread the needle properly.

Tonight, in her sparkly dress, Bradley is easy to find in the audience, glittering a little even in the dim light. That’s exactly it, Laura thinks as she takes a steadying breath before she begins in earnest, glowing even when they can’t see it.

“As a member of the Board of Directors, it’s my privilege to bring us to a close this evening with the Blakeley Award for Achievement in Public Service Journalism. This award recognizes a journalist who affected meaningful change in our civic life thanks to their reporting. I’m especially honored to be able to introduce this year’s recipient, Bradley Jackson, in this capacity.” Laura pauses, allowing for applause at her first mention of Bradley’s name.

“Democracy is a beautiful system, but ultimately, it’s just that—a system. It’s as susceptible to system failure as any other system,” Laura begins. She’d chosen to start here deliberately—she knows how self-deprecating Bradley can be, how much she can downplay her own accomplishments, but she wants to remind Bradley how she’d cut through the mythology of what their democracy is supposed to represent, how she’d made the way these players in this system had failed clear and present and urgent—and that’s no small thing.

“While we, as participants in our democracy, should be able to trust that our elected officials are using their power to represent the interests of their constituents with the utmost integrity, we have seen that this is not always the case. And in the case of former New York Assembly Speaker Chase Howard, State Senator Sam Rogers and Congressman Anthony Garber, blatant abuses of power, critical failures of integrity, and egregious acts of misconduct were brought to light thanks to Bradley’s vital reporting. This reporting began during her tenure at The Morning Show, where she initially investigated allegations of sexual misconduct and misappropriation of funds from within the State Assembly. 

“But as many of us in this room have experienced, sometimes the bigger story continues to come to light long after you have filed your piece. It’s a testament to Bradley’s compassion for her sources and her dogged pursuit of the truth that she carried this story with her from The Morning Show to her current post at the desk of Power & Politics, where she worked to uncover further instances of wrongdoing and complicity across multiple levels of government.”

And Laura remembers the night things had started to snowball, when Bradley had answered her “ Are you on your way home? I was going to order Thai but I don’t want it to get cold” text with “ I just got a call about my Howard story and I think there’s something bigger here, I think you should eat without me” and Bradley hadn’t, in fact, been home until after midnight, coming into the bedroom a little wired, a little manic. 

“These are not easy stories to report. The stakes and the level of scrutiny are both high. If there is ever a margin for error in our profession—and I think that many of us here tonight would agree that that margin is razor-thin, with public trust in both institutions and journalists being what it is in this day and age—I think we all understand that that margin evaporates entirely when the story becomes about sexual misconduct by an elected official.”

Sleeping with the air conditioning on makes Laura’s throat dry, so they’d had the door to the courtyard cracked open and the ceiling fan on that night last July when Bradley had turned over and said “I’m scared of fucking this up,” into the humid New York summer night air.

And Laura had understood then what had been at stake, had understood how everything was starting to compound for Bradley. There was the pressure of this being her first big political scandal to cover behind the desk of P&P, combined with the way she knew Bradley could sense sharks around her, waiting for her to fail in this new position, sniffing for any trace of her blood in the water, and—biggest of all—the sense of obligation she knew Bradley felt towards her sources, to do right by them, especially as they’d started to divulge to her what they’d been through. 

“Like many of you, I could not pull myself away from my TV last fall when every night at 5 PM for weeks, it felt like Bradley was pulling mask after mask off of individuals and institutions that we should have been able to trust. And from my vantage point, I was also fortunate enough to witness the way she worked tirelessly to enable that unmasking.”

It feels too personal for Laura to say that there were times last fall where she saw Bradley on television more than she did at home, or that there were too many nights where Laura poked her head into the living room to find Bradley slumped over, asleep on the couch, papers spread out in front of her on the coffee table, and it had made more sense for Laura to pull a blanket over Bradley there on the couch than to try to get her to bed with her.

“Being a good journalist often starts with pulling at a loose thread and seeing where it leads you. If you’ll forgive the extended metaphor, in this case, Bradley Jackson wound up with a whole sweater’s worth of yarn in her hands as a conspiracy of corruption unraveled thanks to her reporting.” Laura smiles, half to herself, at the image she’s conjured for herself, and it’s a little too dim in the room to see for sure, but she knows that Bradley is surely rolling her eyes at how ham-fisted her metaphor is.

“Her care for this story and her dedication to communicating the urgency and relevance of these wrongdoings in an easily understood and transparent manner meant that these institutions and individuals could face real consequences,” she goes on. “Here in New York as we head into an election year, her reporting has reshaped our ballots as we take stock of those who will not be running for re-election. One cycle of corruption will stop here. And for those across the country who watched Bradley hold these officials’ feet to the fire, through this reporting, they perhaps now know how to hold their own elected officials to account just a little bit more by her example.

“It’s my great honor to learn from her every day,” Laura says, and though she’s tried to keep a sense of aesthetic distance about her during this speech, to let Bradley’s accomplishments speak for themselves, she allows one moment of true, brazen sentimentality to crest here at her conclusion. As she does, she knows her smile is creeping more broadly across her face. “And it’s an absolute pleasure to award Bradley Jackson with the 2023 Blakeley Award for Achievement in Public Service Journalism.”

Bradley’s smile is genuine as she pushes her chair back and navigates between the two large tables surrounded by her peers, she nods in acceptance of their applause before getting to the stage. She carefully steps up to the podium, meeting Laura’s warm gaze and she manages to contain her impulse to minimize the significance of the moment by rolling her eyes, shaking her head, or any one of a multitude of expressions she relies on to deflect attention from herself.

Mostly because in hearing Laura’s speech, just as she did earlier when they walked to get their drinks after speaking with those students, Bradley hears the emphasis and persistence in Laura’s voice that only she can catch. She knows that Laura cares more than Bradley herself does sometimes about Bradley getting the credit and recognition that she deserves, and Bradley knows she’s incredibly lucky to have a partner that believes in her more than anyone in her orbit. It was Laura’s ardent discernment that had activated Bradley’s aspirations beyond TMS and beyond the spaces on a chessboard that she had been constantly shoved into most of her career. It was also that constant faith in Bradley’s skill and potential, completely free of motive or guile, that had begun to turn their early professional appreciation into more. 

So she takes these moments to indulge herself and Laura in accepting the award and all of its implications. Bradley leans in to hug Laura briefly, her hands grasp her girlfriend’s forearm and she chastely kisses the side of her cheek, immediately missing the peppery and sweet scent of her Tom Ford perfume as she pulls away. 

Laura steps back as she gives Bradley the podium, gesturing for her to take her place and she does so, flashing an appreciative grin at Laura because she can’t quite help herself. The lights make Laura’s pale skin almost glow, and the deep slash of red on her lips along with her cascading nearly black waves pull Bradley’s attention, mesmerizing her momentarily. Laura tilts her head and squints at her, admonishing her girlfriend discreetly before Bradley turns to the audience and pulls her speech from her sleeve. 

She clears her throat and adjusts the mic at the top of the podium down a considerable distance with a Lucille Ball inspired level of comedic timing that sends a ripple of laughter through the audience to Bradley’s enjoyment. She can’t see her but Bradley can hear Laura chuckling behind her, which widens her own smile. 

“I would like to first give my sincere thanks to the Board of the Women in Journalism Foundation for this award and this event. I am incredibly grateful to be recognized and to be included in this class of amazing contributors to our field. Being a woman in journalism is truly a special thing, even though it also comes with a seemingly insurmountable number of challenges at times. Having organizations like the WIJF is something that cannot be overstated in its importance to growing our ranks. Not just in the quantity of women in the profession, but in ensuring that each generation of journalists is more intersectional and can better speak to the complexities of stories and experiences we report on.”

Bradley brings the domed, crystal statue that laid on the top right corner of the podium closer to her as she speaks, feeling its weight as she tips it into her hand and the surface cools the clamminess that had suddenly made itself felt on her palms. Her name flashes in gold under the title of the award, the words “public service” echoing in her head in Laura’s voice. 

“The Sheriff in my hometown in West Virginia will be very happy to see that I have evolved from a public nuisance to receiving a public service award.” She stalls slightly, she knows, taking the easy ding to herself that just moments earlier she was successfully avoiding. Her nerves are spiking just a bit, buzzing just under the surface of her skin. 

It does feel surreal, this whole thing, and she can’t ignore the fact that it is objectively ridiculous, where she is now compared to where she has come from, with at least a few lifetimes in between the two points. Bradley looks down to the paper with her speech, words written down carefully but still with the slash marks and edits in the margins. She takes a steadying breath as she feels the solid presence of Laura just over her left shoulder. 

“When you come from a small town like mine, with a difficult upbringing, it’s pretty impractical to consider a career like broadcast journalism. It makes even less sense to the people around you, especially when you use words like passion, justice, and truth to describe why this is something that you desperately want to pursue, in place of having a family right out of high school or working in a factory. 

“Those were and continue to be incredibly important roles in a community, however, my instinct to push beyond the practical and consider something that I love to do versus what is expected, was a point of contention in my hometown almost immediately. 

“That confusion and dismissal doesn’t just come from people who knew you growing up and only see from the top of their range in regard to what you’re capable of. It can and does also come from teachers who watch you fall asleep in class from working overnight at the local cafe to afford your textbooks, from the producer who only tasks you with coffee runs and making copies during your first network internship, and the list goes on.”

She already feels like this part of the speech is going on longer than she wanted but Bradley knows if she was ever going to acknowledge some of these things publicly and expel some of these demons that for too long held her in this stasis of running as fast as she can in quicksand, then this is possibly the best and only time she will get the chance. 

“I spent a lot of my career being told who I was, what I was capable of, and what I wasn’t. Many of you in this room who have worked with me could probably guess how that tended to go over. But regardless of how I pushed back at this or how hard I worked to show them otherwise, I still spent too much time wondering if deep down, I believed them. I spent too much time feeling like I was the only person who really thought I was any good at this work. And that was okay, even when it wasn’t, because I didn’t think I needed approval or even support. I just needed someone to give me a job, give me a mic and viewers, then I would find the stories and tell them.”

Bradley rests her forearms on the podium now as she turns to the next page of her speech, then looks up into the crowd, the dim overhead lights allowing her to see to the back of the ballroom where she spots Alex Levy leaning against the wall by the back left doors. A grin tugs at the side of her mouth. Alex had said she wouldn’t be able to make it, and insisted she didn’t need to be there pulling focus from Bradley with whispers of her defection from network news and ghosts of scandals past. 

“But the problem with being so used to going to battle for every inch of progress and power you have is that you turn allies into obstacles before you’re able to really determine which side they’re really on. I fell into that trap at times when I first started with UBA, to my own detriment, and for a period of time during my tenure with The Morning Show. I did this until someone-until someone very special to me showed me it could be different. She showed me that I was fighting a battle I had already won, even if not everyone saw it, but she did.”

She turns back and meets Laura’s curious gaze briefly, her own loving and open in a way that Bradley does not normally share with her girlfriend while an audience looks on, but credit must be given where it is due. Then she turns back to the audience and their eyes return solely to her having followed over to Laura as she twists the ring on her pinky finger. On stage, both of them feel as if a microscope lens has suddenly been twisted, sharpening the view and bringing the audience so much closer than before. 

“Because as journalists, it is our job to be an x-ray on the human condition and to sometimes have painful conversations about hard truths, as exhibited in the stories for which I am receiving this award tonight. But it is an absolutely singular experience to be able to do this while also having the unconditional support and safety of a truly amazing team and an incredibly remarkable partner.” She looks down on the two tables of her Morning Show colleagues as well as her Power & Politics team, recalling many of the occasions, including the challenges that inspired her next words.

“Being held and seen, being loved, being given the gift of faith in my ability to tell these stories authentically and being allowed to fall apart in order to keep going, allowed me to show up for these remarkable survivors who are the heart and soul of this work. They are the true silence-breakers and agents of change that so graciously brought me along with them with no obligation to anyone but themselves. I am honored to have this recognition for public service in journalism, because you can’t solve problems that you cannot see and this platform continues to give me the opportunity to shine a light where we desperately need it. Thank you again and goodnight.”

The applause echoes throughout the room as Bradley takes the statue in her hands and nods graciously, mouthing thank you multiple times to familiar faces in the crowd as she and Laura make their way off stage. Bradley meets Mia’s gaze from across the room as her former producer grins at her proudly. 

She turns away from the front of the stage to speak to Laura, however the event coordinator, Nicholas has pulled Laura off with two other Board members. Curious, she steps over to the group and realizes they are discussing additional closing comments including the announcement of a scholarship program. 

Laura notices Bradley in her periphery and draws her to her side with her hand gently at Bradley’s waist as she continues the discussion, confirming with Chairwoman Martha Laird and Vice-Chair Julissa Miralles who excuse themselves to make their way up to the podium to wrap up the evening. Nicholas leaves as quickly as he arrived, flitting to direct the photographer at the back of the room. 

Laura and Bradley stand idly side by side watching calmly. Bradley feels uncharacteristically energized now that the speeches are done and she did indeed manage to successfully express what this has all meant to her to the crowd of her industry peers without embarrassing herself. Suddenly Laura dips down to catch her ear quietly and Bradley turns to catch her words as they glance off her cheek. “You were great, Brad.”

“Thank you. So were you.” She wants to say more, wants to tell Laura how proud she is of her as well, for this night, for her important work as a board member, how she has influenced and inspired more than she will ever fully know. She has told Laura in so many words most of what she outlined in her speech, but Bradley also knows she struggles at times with expressing the depth and breadth of what she feels for Laura. 

Instead, for now, Bradley slips her hand around Laura’s elbow and presses into her side once again. The Chair and Vice-Chair congratulate tonight's award recipients once again and end the event as planned with the scholarship announcement. Laura and Bradley make their way back to their table, Bradley exchanging hugs and words of gratitude with the people who have a piece of this award right along with her. 

To much agreement, Mia suggests they transition to post-award celebration and drinks at the Glass House Tavern—it’s walking distance from the Edison. Bradley doesn’t even have to break out her pleading expression to get Laura to agree to a drink, and she feels herself getting a second wind now that her anxiety from her speech is behind her. 

They gather their bags and coats then head out through the lobby after a few moments of photos and comments with the lingering press outlets. Bradley sees WVU students filing out of the venue with who she assumes are at least two parents. She calls out to them and waves goodbye, reminding Jasmine and Abbey to apply to the scholarship that WIJF announced this evening if they qualify, much to Laura’s amusement.

“You know, in addition to the scholarship money, the recipient is matched with a mentor who is a journalist working actively in their field of choice. You should consider joining the group of mentors we pull from, you’d be a valuable addition,” Laura needles her. 

Bradley rolls her eyes as she helps remove Laura’s hair from the collar of the jacket she just pulled on. Laura turns to assist Bradley in pulling her own jacket on as well, sliding her sleeves carefully over the raised sequins on her dress.

“I don’t know about that—but good try. Maybe we can just bring them onto P&P as interns for a summer semester or something. If it’s a good fit for what they want to pursue.” They make their way outside arm in arm, the spring night sky clear of rain clouds, the Ballroom marquee lights illuminating the sidewalk and their small group. 

They start walking down the short distance down West 47th street towards Glass House, and Laura takes a second to shoot a text off to Gordon, inviting him and his husband to join them, as he doesn’t live far (though Laura has made fun of him for years for continuing to live in Hell’s Kitchen).

“The old man is probably already asleep,” Gayle jokes, despite the fact that it’s only just after 10, and Gayle is a few years older than Gordon.

As their party makes their way into the bar, Bradley hesitates before reaching for the handle of the door.

“Are you okay?” Laura asks, clocking her girlfriend’s moment of hesitation and the way she shifts a little from foot to foot.

Bradley nods, but there’s a hint of a grimace in her smile. “Yeah, my shoes are just giving me a blister. I’ll be fine if we can sit down, I’m just hoping we don’t have to wait too long for a table.”

“I mean, we can just go home if you want to,” Laura offers, and Bradley shakes her head.

“No, it’s fine, I do want to get a drink—”

And Mia gingerly pries the door open in front of the pair of them. “Hey, did Gordon text you back?” she asks Laura. “We just need the right headcount so they can tell us how long we’ll have to wait.”

Laura slips her phone out of her pocket and taps the screen twice. “Nothing yet, but honestly, I don’t know that we’re staying, so—”

Bradley jumps on the end of her sentence. “I’m fine, Laura, it’s just a blister, we can stay.”

And Mia looks askance at the pair of them for a moment.

“My shoes are killing me,” Bradley offers, by way of explanation. 

And Mia pulls her satchel forward on her shoulder so she can unzip her purse. “Hey, I’ve got a pair of flats in my bag. I brought these for me, but I just so happened to spend most of the event sitting down with my shoes off anyway.” As if her handbag were created by Mary Poppins herself, Mia pulls a pair of black flats out and hands them to Bradley. “They’re the stretchy kind, so I hope they fit.”

“You’re like my goddamn fairy godmother, Mia, I swear I could kiss you right now.”

“Bradley, I’m much too young to be your godmother, and I would rather not fight this one,” she swings her thumb at Laura, “for the honor of locking lips, but you’re welcome. I’ll give you a sec to change shoes and let them know you’ll be headed in shortly.” 

“This might have earned you a freebie.” Bradley giggles at Laura’s quip, while Mia shakes her head, used to the pair’s humor by now. Laura thanks Mia for her ever-present care and forethought before Mia makes her way back into the bar, leaving the two of them outside. 

Laura lets Bradley grab her forearm as she takes one heel off at a time, slipping her feet into Mia’s emergency shoes. 

“Better?” Laura asks, once Bradley has slung the straps of her heels over her wrist to carry them.

“Much. Already.”

And as Bradley turns to open the door to the bar for both of them, Laura grabs Bradley’s elbow.

“Hey,” she starts, and when Bradley turns back to her, Laura looks a little like she doesn’t quite know where to begin.

“Just—while it’s just the two of us, I just wanted to say how proud I am of you, Bradley. There were a couple things I didn’t think were appropriate to put in my speech that I wanted to say, tonight.”

“Something inappropriate?” Bradley waggles her eyebrows at her, and Laura pulls a face.

“Not like that. Just, you know, things I saw you do when you were working on this story that I didn’t want to allude to because I didn’t want to undermine your journalistic integrity. But if I could have, I would have told them about all the nights you stayed up on the phone talking to the women who were scared to go on the record. I would have told them how proud I was of you for making them feel like they weren't just a pawn in someone else's game—not those men in power, not the 24 hour news machine, and I know you certainly weren't playing games.” Laura shrugs and smiles. “I’m just proud of you, Brad,” she repeats. “I mean, I’m always proud of you. But especially now.”

She feels overcome by Laura’s words, by the emotion of the last few weeks, by what tonight has meant to her. All this emotion is pushing up from its resting places between her ribs to lodge at the base of her throat. Bradley can’t control the tears that prick the sides of her vision, glossing her blue eyes as she considers her response carefully.

“I love you,” is all she can manage initially, and Bradley needs to say it because it’s true and because each time she does, it means something more, something deeper and truer than before.

“Laura, we’ve never talked about this, really, but for a while whenever I needed that extra push or some tiny hint of a spark to keep myself from just giving in to everyone’s expectations of me, to keep any sort of hope that I could get to where I am now, I would think about this picture of me when I was 3 years old. I’m in just overalls and cowboy boots, standing in the driver’s seat of my grandpa’s old trans am, my hands on the wheel and grinning at the camera like I’m about to start it right up and drive off.” She grins at the thought of the photo, pulling her bottom lip over her teeth, remembering how it had been ruined when her apartment flooded her second year out of college. 

It had been another thing that happened to Bradley that she had had no control over but had to accept the consequences of. She’d had to pull herself up again and rebuild, even as her brother was spiraling out in his addiction worse than ever and her mom was calling her nonstop to help. It was the first—but certainly not the last—time Bradley lost a station job and ended up couch-surfing with former classmates. 

“I looked at the photo constantly, and then when it got ruined, I would pull it up in my memory and ask myself every time if that 3 year old little girl would be proud of where I found myself. If she would think a decision I made was foolish or the right one. And sometimes, I was ashamed when I knew the answer was no, she wouldn’t, or that I had done the wrong thing. And I still think about her, even with all of this success. And I know she would still think I make foolish decisions at times, because I’m still me, but I know she’s proud now.”

Bradley pulls Laura, who is watching her closely and hanging on her every word, closer, her arms slipping up and around her waist. “Not just because of my career or because of how I’ve managed to come to terms with what my relationships with my mom and Hal looks like, but I think she’s proud of this too. You know? Because of what we’ve built together. And what we’re going to keep building.”

She brushes a lock of Laura’s hair behind her ear and noting the coldness at the tip, she briefly warms it in her palm. Laura turns into the heat, kissing Bradley’s wrist tenderly. 

“What I said on stage tonight,” Bradley goes on, “I need you to understand that I meant it more than I could ever possibly express to you. What you see in me, all those things that you notice that you wish so badly you could make other people see, the light and the dark that you’ve not just tolerated or accepted but loved in me… that is what has made all of the difference in knowing that I can go all in on whatever it is I want to do. Then at the beginning of the day or end of the day or in the god forsaken middle of the night, there’s you, me and this.” 

She gestures between them with a tilt of the top of her head. It’s always wonderful to be appreciated and respected for the work by the American public watching the news, watching her show. Bradley knows that relationship is critical to be a journalist. She is glad that she has earned praise and support from her network and from her team, as well as what was on display tonight from her industry peers. The praise from people she’s admired herself from a young age has a particularly special place in her heart. 

But she’s uniquely positioned in that the one person that she’s admired the most, from the beginning of her career up until now, is also the love of her life. Besides that 3 year old little girl, Laura was the only one she looked to for validation and direction. And Laura had gotten up on stage tonight and provided that in a way that others would have considered a liability to her own credibility just a few years ago. 

It has been incredibly difficult at times, when Bradley has heard the opinions that some people still have of her based on her past actions, when she wasn’t in a space to be seen and understood for all that she had overcome. She is not someone who feels a compulsion to reopen every single wound whether healed or barely scabbed over, simply to justify what she did to survive. Nor should she have to be. 

But Laura knows every wound, every location, and every stage of healing inside of Bradley and out. And Bradley knows that Laura struggles against her desire to carry them for her, to ease the burden for Bradley, but Laura has also never thought less of her for needing to carry it on her own, the same way that Laura has her own wounds to carry that she would never place on someone else. Bradley knows that it is beyond her wildest dreams that she and Laura found one another when they did, and that they can alleviate the heaviest parts of the other just by being present. 

She pushes up on her toes to brush her lips softly against Laura’s before they quietly separate. Bradley takes Laura’s hand and they make their way through the doors, side by side.