Work Text:
Manchester, New Hampshire
January 6th, 1998
“Danny.”
Josh swanned out of a doorframe, flashing a winsome smile.
Or, more accurately, what Josh probably imagined was a winsome smile. As Josh Lyman’s expressions went, it fell somewhere between strung out coffee goblin and power-broking junkie roughly one hair’s breadth from a psychotic break.
Danny Concannon was, unfortunately, rather familiar with both.
He raised his chin in greeting as he crossed the open plan office [former sporting goods shop? photography studio? local insurance agency?; something quaint and small town-y twenty years ago, as such, currently out of business] and held out a hand.
“Hey, Josh.”
“Welcome to New Hampshire.” Josh ushered him over to a windowed make-do side office [broom closet? janitorial supplies?] and gestured grandly through a glass window beyond.
“Quite the operation you got,” Danny remarked. He slipped off his coat and set it on a pile of Bartlet for America posters.
Josh perched on the edge of his desk. “We're doing big things.”
There was a rapid knock on the jamb.
A willowy blonde woman appeared. She spoke very quickly.
“Josh, I'm to tell you the maple syrup thing is at eleven tomorrow, not ten. And that there was supposed to be a photo op with the Greater Nashua Boy Scouts this afternoon, but they had to push to next week. Also the Portsmouth lobsterman and fishing exchange got moved to Friday.”
“Lobstermen…” Josh made a face. “They’re the crab catchers?”
“Well, lobsters, but yes, crustaceans generally, I suppose, yes.”
“I’m saying, they’re the ones making the thing about the crab quotas?”
“Yes, that’s them.”
“Okay. Tell David and Toby.”
“Yeah.”
She vanished.
“Big things?” Danny asked.
“You doubt me?”
“Boy Scouts canceled on you,” Danny pointed out.
“So we're gearing up to do big things,” Josh shrugged. “And they didn’t cancel. They rescheduled. Probably a kitten stuck in a tree somewhere.”
Danny resisted rolling his eyes. “Don’t feel bad—the Eagle Scout endorsement’s a tough get.”
“I was an Eagle Scout,” a new voice said.
“No one has any trouble believing that. Sam Seaborn,” Josh gestured. “Danny Concannon. We went to college together.”
“You went to college,” Danny corrected.
“We lived and studied concurrently at an institute of higher education in Boston. Well, near Boston…”
“Josh likes reminding people he went to Harvard,” Sam quipped.
“Find it hard to believe he never used to get girls?” Danny asked.
“I do not.” Sam blinked. A light bulb seemed to flick on. “Danny…Wait, you’re the guy from the Post. I like your writing.”
“Thanks. Let’s get coffee sometime. Talk tradecraft.”
Josh sat back on his desk. “Five whole minutes without working a source, Daniel. Getting slow in your old age.”
Sam nodded at the suggestion. “Yes. Let’s. But, I’ll warn you, it may have to be in another lifetime. I believe I'm booked for every hour of what is, quite possibly, the rest of my life, at this point.”
“Missing the private sector yet?” Danny asked.
Sam smiled. “You know, I'm really not.”
“Wait till you start getting paid,” Danny said, sympathetic, except, not really.
Sam leaned in. “Are people getting paid?”
“Not so much, no,” Josh said, thumbing through a file.
“That's what I thought,” Sam sighed. “Good to meet you.”
“So, what’d you have in–”
A BANG rang out across the office as a door, somewhere, crashed open.
“JOSHUA.”
Josh hung his head to his chest for a moment. “Hold on,” he sighed, catching Danny’s eye. “This isn't going to be pleasant. Also: Get used to it.”
Danny started to ask, “Who–”
A tall, attractive, very angry woman draped herself across the doorway.
“Oh, Joshua,” she purred slash threatened.
Josh smiled. “Yes?”
“Did you give away my South Carolina ad budget?”
“What?”
“The ad budget for South Carolina. Did you. Give it. Ay-way?” she enunciated.
Danny was shocked to see petulant, passionate, never-met-an-argument-he-didn't-want-to-win Josh Lyman look down at his hands. “No.”
“Oh really?”
She stepped in, staring him down. “So you didn't take the half million I told you explicitly not to touch a mere three days ago? You didn't take that prize plum and send it somewhere which, for what could only be unfathomably stupid reasons, is not the great state of South Carolina?”
“No way.”
“Josh…” she warned.
He shrugged, deflecting. “I gave most of that budget away.”
“Josh–!” She thrust her hands into the air as if to strangle him. “Why, oh why, are you like this? What the hell market did you give it to?”
“I gave it to Iowa.”
“Josh….” She reached for her temples.
“We're doing well in Iowa!”
She threw her hands out. “And wouldn't it be nice to tell the good people of South Carolina that!”
"I don't see the problem."
“God give me strength,” the woman sighed. “You are a plague on my house, know that, boychik? In fact, you're ten of them. We talked about this.”
“You talked about it. Me, not so much.”
“That money was already spoken for.”
Josh tried to defend his reasoning. The woman was not having it.
“CJ–!”
“No. You listen to me…”
Huh. Danny looked at the thin blonde woman—nametag, Donna Moss—who’d reappeared and was hovering anxiously at the door.
He pointed at the sleek and shouty vision in Eileen Fisher. Mouthed: That’s CJ?
The woman gave him a tentative smile and nodded. Yep.
He looked between CJ and Josh, then back to Donna. And this is…?
Donna nodded again, knowing. They do this a lot, yes.
Interesting. He smirked.
CJ—the CJ, press officer for the Bartlet campaign and who Danny had expected (he was somewhat embarrassed to admit) to have more Y chromosomes than the Amazon warrior-goddess before him, hell-bent on avenging her thwarted media market buys, clearly possessed—turned and saw Danny for the first time.
CJ stared at him. "Who is this?"
Danny smiled and waved. “Hey.”
Josh was delicately frozen in place, like he was afraid CJ might pounce on him if he moved. "This is Danny,” he managed. “He was my housemate. In college."
"Why's he here?"
"He's here doing a thing," Josh offered by way of no explanation whatsoever.
CJ ignored him.
She gave Danny a once over, looking at him askance, trying to puzzle him out. “Why are you here?"
“This and that. Marry me?”
One eyebrow lifted. She tipped her head, amused. “Bold gambit, but I've heard it before.” Shrewd and non-committal, she rolled her tongue in her cheek and asked, “What's in it for me?”
"The willing ear of journalistic integrity. Plus I'm told I have a boyish charm."
Her shoulders and expression sank so visibly, he almost laughed. “Tell me you're not…”
“I am,” Danny nodded. “Nice to meet ya.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose and drew a long breath. “Josh…”
“It's fine, CJ. He's here off the record.”
“I'm off the record,” Danny confirmed, nice guy that he was. “For now.”
CJ turned her head around the room, searching.
Josh's brow scrunched like a doormat. "Whaddaya doing?"
"Looking for a sharp object I can kill you with."
"What do you think about Greece for a honeymoon?" Danny asked.
“Get out.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want any witnesses,” she growled. She stabbed a finger toward Josh's jugular. "You and I need to have a conversation about media access. Another conversation, apparently."
“Can't wait.”
“Italy’d be nice,” Danny reasoned.
CJ held up a finger. "You…I don't have time to deal with you right now.”
She reached both hands into her blazer pockets, emerging with a few business cards in one hand, the other with the crumbled remains of a Nature Valley bar. She held her card hand out, and wiped the other across Josh’s face. Josh made a face and tried to wriggle away. CJ flailed her palm after him as she passed Danny the white square with her name, phone, and campaign email. Josh ducked away from her again, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.
At no point did Josh, CJ, or, for that matter, Donna Moss, seem to see this as unusual behavior for a pair of professional political operatives staffed to a sitting Governor and active candidate for president of the United States, and not, yanno, twelve year old siblings.
“Josh, you have Bruno in forty-five minutes,” Donna sang out, and drifted off with a sigh. “CJ, Toby was yelling something about Charleston.”
Josh hopped to his feet. “CJ, take the money from Texas. We’re down to Hoynes there, and it’s gonna go red anyway.”
“Fine, but I need– ”
“Take the rest from Arizona. We need to move on to Illinois.”
Josh grabbed his coat and swung it over his shoulders. CJ tried to smack his head as he stepped past her, but Josh ducked it in what had to have been a well-honed and practiced move.
“Danny, c’mon. Governor wants to sit down with a few outlets and you’re on the list.”
“Am I top of the list?”
“Maybe. Let’s talk.” He turned to CJ. “That work for you, Your Contentiousness?” Josh asked CJ.
CJ pursed her lips. Made a face. Threw up her hands. “Fine.”
Josh tipped his head, gesturing for Danny to follow him. “C’mon.”
“When we win South Carolina, I want you to remember this conversation,” CJ said loudly, following him into the hallway.
“Nice talking. Have a think about color schemes!” Danny said brightly.
CJ beamed at him with utter insincerity. “No, I don't think I will. Stop by my office before you leave.”
“You don’t have an office!” Josh called back.
“Fine, my…” She gestured to a desk beside a radiator along the far wall of the main office space. “...pipeworks.”
She walked away.
Danny swooned.
He hurried after Josh.
"That's CJ Cregg?"
“Yeah.”
“Wow. That’s CJ Cregg.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.”
“You said that.”
“That is not who I pictured.”
Josh scoffed. "Yeah, cuz, you pictured a dude, my dude."
"Well, sounds bad when you say it like that."
"Yeah, and it's the sound of saying the sexist assumption out loud that's the problem."
"Now I get what everyone meant about the Hollywood star power you guys picked up."
“Credit where credit's due: she's good. When she's not using me for batting practice, I guess. She was Leo’s idea.”
“Think you could probably stand to have your ego adjusted every so often.”
“Ho, ho, Daniel,” Josh crowed. “You laugh now, but you won’t when it's your name she's shouting next.”
“I should be so lucky. She married? Seeing anyone?”
“It's a presidential campaign. Everyone who isn't terminally single is about to be.”
“Good to know.”
Josh made a face. “Ugh.”
“What?”
Josh’s forehead wrinkled. “I dunno. It’s just, she's like…It’s like she’s my sister. Creeps me out." He shivered and shook his head in disgust.
Subtle as possible, Danny studied Josh’s face and body language, remembering the twenty-two-year-old who’d turn every mention of his long-dead older sister into a manic episode of academic fury fueled by self-recrimination and loathing. Josh didn’t seem to notice what he’d said.
Maybe he'd actually talked to a therapist.
"C'mon let's get out of here. I wanna introduce you to a few folks who’d be good for a profile piece about the Governor.”
Danny sighed. Maybe not therapy, then.
“I’m doing great by the way,” Danny offered. “If you’re curious.”
“Good to hear it. Let’s go.”
*
It was snowing a few hours later when Danny ducked back into the campaign office, his notebook full and a half dozen new contacts to add to his Rolodex.
Inside, the buzz of activity had quieted to a half dozen staffers stuffing mailers and making calls. CJ Cregg was flicking through the days’ papers, circling words and making notes.
“Reading anything interesting?”
“This and that,” CJ answered, quoting his earlier words and giving him a pointed look. She starred a few phrases and slashed a highlighter over Jackie Angelov’s piece in the Seattle Examiner before folding the page and throwing her pen aside.
"Danny, Danny boy,” CJ drawled, folding her hands. “Josh's college roommate. Isn't that cute. Isn't that sweet."
"Housemates, actually,” Danny corrected. He leaned against the desk opposite hers. “I was in grad school and stringing for the Globe while the boy wonder was trying to hack it at the Crimson."
“Another exacting Cambridge man. Isn’t that just what the world needs?”
“Probably not.”
She tented her hands and drummed her fingers together. “So, let me see: ABC News won’t send their A team up from New York until we start running higher numbers. CBS would be the ideal market to press our message, but Leslie Stahl keeps playing coy. CNN sent Jen March a few weeks back for a slice of life on the campaign piece, but since then she’s been down in Austin with Hoynes. Now, Governor Bartlet hasn’t been a Beltway regular since his days in Congress, so if I were the ever so addle-minded Joshua Lyman and I wanted to get my ideas across to a high-value, DC readership, I might reach out to someone I know…”
She had a whole little preamble, he marveled, deeply amused.
“...at the Gray Lady herself, the venerable Washington Post.”
“So close,” Danny corrected. “Gray Lady is the Times.”
CJ flicked a hand in the air at him, nonplussed. “Well, whatever they call you then.”
“Award winning? World class? Devilishly handsome?”
She met his eye. “Some of those things more than others, I’m sure.” Her voice was even, but he could tell she had to work a little for it.
Danny leaned forward. “Hey, so how’s a governor of one of the most racially homogenous, least economically diverse states in the union going to make a meaningful appeal to the wider American electorate?”
Her mouth twisted, not unpleasantly. He knew she knew he was testing her, and didn’t hesitate. She smiled blandly and, just like that, transformed herself into the standard campaign spokesperson.
“First, after serving three terms as congressman and two terms as governor, Jed Bartlet has demonstrated the kind of leadership that works for all Americans. And second, not for nothing, the greater southern New Hampshire area is one the fastest growing regions in all of New England, especially in the fields of technology, education, and pharmaceuticals.”
She smiled, pleased with herself. “What else ya got, Postman?”
He tossed her a couple more questions, just testing her polish, getting a sense of her style, where she’d accept a premise, where she’d push back. She was sharp, clever, and funny, which would charm the hell out of a press corp used to statistic-heavy substance over California style. Maybe Leo McGarry truly was the genius everyone in the Democratic Party of a certain age made him out to be. He might actually be steering this ship toward something.
“Not bad,” Danny admitted. “So what's the C stand for?"
Her face scrunched up. “What?”
“CJ? What's the C?”
“Just the C not the J?”
“Well that was gonna be my follow-up. Catherine? Cecilia? Christine?”
She squinted her eyes at him, skeptical.
“Cassandra? Cecily?”
“You're a strange guy, but I'd expect nothing less from someone who's willingly been friends with Josh Lyman for over ten years.”
“Kinda hoping it's Caroline.”
“Why's that?’
“Sweet Caroline. Neil Diamond? Kills at weddings.”
They stared each other down. CJ caught her tongue between her teeth.
“Claudia,” she said, slightly puzzled, though he was unclear if she was confused by his question or the fact that she’d answered it.
“And the J?” he asked, hopeful.
“Jean...”
“Claudia Jean.” He made a show of writing it down. “So. Idealism in media, that's a rare bird.”
One eyebrow arched ever so lovely. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “You had to be pulling, what, at least two, three hundred grand a year in studio PR? Even when you adjust for the cost of living in Kalorama versus Beverly Hills, that’s gotta be quite a blow to the bank account.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, you certainly don’t get into public service for the money.”
“What do you get into it for?”
“Service,” she said, the obviously implied.
“Said the lady in the cashmere and silk,” he noted.
She lifted one shoulder without concern. “Need armor to go to war, my friend. And this one is fought on television.”
Well, she had a point there.
They went back and forth a bit more. She had a little color in her cheeks, and a wry response to his every question, though, he got the sense he was only scraping the surface.
“That may be hard to believe to you and your other muckrakers, out raking muck,” she taunted. “But we actually believe in doing the hard things that need doing over here at Bartlet for America.” Her nose wrinkled. “What is a muckraker, by the way?"
“Journalist,” Danny offered. Obvious.
"I mean the expression. Where did it come from?"
"Teddy Roosevelt. Except not. He was quoting a 17th century English allegory called Pilgrim's Progress —the bit about about those who are too concerned with earthly problems to see the heavens beyond; it was a metaphor directed at the newsmen of the day who Roosevelt thought were only interested in scandal and corruption without offering much in the way of solutions and hope.”
“An unimaginative press? Wow, what a concept…”
He held up his hands. “Solutions are your guy’s job, not mine.”
“Given the steadily declining trust in corporate media, I think the American people are well aware that problem solving is not the forté of the news industry. God forbid you reach for the stars now and then.” A note of irritation crept into her voice.
“I wasn’t foolish enough to run for office.”
“No, just foolish enough to play Monday morning quarterback on every decision someone else has stepped up to the plate to make.”
“Got your sports metaphors mixed, there. And welcome to public service."
"Shut up."
She rolled a pencil between her index fingers, and Danny was more distracted by it than he had any right to be.
“Why do you know 17th century allegorical literature?” CJ asked.
“Cause I know things.”
“So men tell like to me on a regular basis. I remain unconvinced,” she volleyed back. “I ask again…”
“A misspent youth?”
She snorted. “Color me shocked to find that a graduate of Harvard was a nerdy teenager.”
“One, I’m a lotta things, but Harvard grad ain’t one of em. And two, disdain for intellect is an interesting look coming from someone stumping for a PhD from New England with a shelf full of honors, including those from the London School of Economics and the Swedish Academy.” He raised one eyebrow. “Especially hypocritical coming from someone who went to Stanford.”
“Check your facts, bitsy-boo. I went to Berkeley, which…” She cut off, realizing the obvious trap she’d walked herself into.
Danny grinned. “See what I did there?”
CJ narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”
Danny shrugged. “Jed Bartlet’s running for president. Seems like a good idea to let people know a thing or two about the man.”
“We’re down by ten against Hoynes. Six against Wiley. Why are you here?”
“Legwork, mostly. Set up some background interviews, get some local color–”
“Not the Washington Post. You. Pretty sure you get to pass go and skip the assignment editor’s desk once they give you the Pulitzer Prize for investigation. You’re not some kid fresh out of Medill, chasing clips and building out a national beat. You’ve got clout. So why are you here?”
Betsy Berkeley had done her homework. Interesting.
“Favor for an old friend. One who’s a good guy, even if he’s also kind of an idiot–” Here, CJ smiled. Danny thought—hoped, maybe—it was a real one.
“And one who, against every odd, has managed to maintain a rare sense of optimism in professional politics. That’s why.”
They looked at one another.
"How ‘bout Hawaii? Tahiti, works too. I'm not picky. I travel well."
One corner of CJ’s mouth ticked up. She really was striking. "This your standard bit with media relations?"
"Nah, not really," Danny shrugged.
"You should try it with the guy from Hoynes," she suggested, grinning fully.
"Ted's not really my type. Kinda timid. Plus he's short."
CJ shook her head, but she held his gaze and didn’t look away.
“The Governor can do an hour tomorrow at the farm.”
“Farm?” Danny asked, confused. “Isn’t there an–”
“Official residence? There is. He prefers the farm.” She passed him a print out with approved access details, including for the security office and location. Thorough.
“Little tip?” CJ offered.
“Please.”
“Talk to his wife, Dr. Bartlet.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s interesting.”
“Yeah?” Danny asked.
CJ nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” He slid his card across her desk.
“I’ll follow up after. Probably have some questions. On the record.”
“Okay.”
“Last shot: Bermuda?”
She reached out and brushed a few droplets of water off his shoulders. Melted snow.
A frission of something—something that wasn’t about surpassing low expectations, a bit of banter, and getting what little professional fun was to be had out of three days in New Hampshire in the dead of winter—something else started to flicker into being.
“You're cute.” CJ put her glasses on and, looking up from her hand-me-down desk, in a too-cold, too-small campaign office, said simply: “I didn't expect that about Daniel Concannon, Senior Political Correspondent for the Washington Post.”
"I keep telling 'em to use my picture with my articles. Be good for circulation."
"Go away," she said. Smiling. "Now."
"Okay," he said. "See you around, Claudia Jean."
"CJ,” she emphasized. “And, yes, I suppose you will."
"Looking forward to it."
"Leave," she demanded.
"I'm gonna go. But I'll be back."
"Whatever."
Danny grinned, tucked his notebook away, and for the moment, let the door close behind him.
*