The Good Guys

"Honey," he calls as he opens the door, "I'm home."

Every day it makes her smile; who knew they would become this kind of couple, live lives of such convention? Who knew that this is what she craved with him all along?

"You're home early," she says, kissing him. Because she can.

"I thought I'd be home for dinner for once." Later, admittedly, than most people have dinner. But most people are not running the country.

"I was thinking Chinese take out tonight."

He pulls a face. "Isn't home cooked food supposed to be one of the advantages of marriage?"

"I think it depends who you marry, cupcake. If your wife is also a devoted mother and Chief of Staff to the First Lady, then what can you do..." She waves a lettuce at him. "But if you'd prefer salad..."

"I'm good with take out," he says, responding to the threat. She is not at all controlling. "Did you TiVo the Good Guys?"

She wouldn't have dared not to. It's not really her kind of thing, but it's only fair. She made him sit through When Harry Met Sally enough times back in the day, hoping (vainly) that he would get the hint: A man and a woman can't be friends, the sex part always gets in the way...

Besides, the Good Guys is pretty funny, and if she tilts her head and squints the Dan guy looks a little like an older, fatter Josh with bad manners.

"Have I so far ever let you down?"

"Well, there was the whole Indonesian translator thing..."

She sighs. He really needs to let that go, learn to keep in mind all the things she does right. "Besides that one time?"

"Also, you did leave me in the middle of a crisis."

"Okay." Time for the pouting to make a comeback. "If you want me to delete the Good Guys..."

"On the other hand," he says quickly, "agreeing to marry me kind of made up for leaving me."

She snatches the remote back. "Thought so. Kung Po chicken?"

But she's lost him already. He's raising two fingers, pointing out of the window and making shooting noises.

Ladies and gentleman, she thinks, my husband. The biggest political brain in Washington.

"It's not a toy," he thunders, "it's an orange gun!"

She laughs at him. She does that more often than he would like her to. "You need to work on your Southern accent, but other than that, it's almost perfect."

"I'm still lacking a major accessory, though."

She wondered how long it would take before he mentioned this. Every single damn day since the first showing of the preview. Weeks, it feels like. "How many times are you going to insist on having this argument? It's the mustache or me. You choose."

"Well." He smiles, and she thinks what a shame it would be if anything were to hide those dimples. "I would not have to wait nine years for a mustache."

This does not amuse her. Not in the least. She stands with her hands on her hips and waits for a suitable apology. "Excuse me. Who was doing the waiting?"

"You, my love," he says obligingly. He really, really wants to get to watch this TV program. She knows, because she's seen the countdown app on his iPhone. She has long resigned herself to this latest obsession. "You did all the hard work."

He leans in to charm her but she pulls away."You know what I think? I think a mustache would make the whole kissing thing very uncomfortable."

"Well," he says carefully. "That is certainly a consideration." He wraps his arms around her from behind, smells her hair. Because he can.

"I would think so," she smiles, but does not let him get any ideas. This not controlling people thing is more complex than it might at first appear.

He resigns himself to the inevitable. "Okay. No mustache."

"Good. You're still a hero without one," she says, and lets him kiss her, loses herself in the moment, as she always does. Because she can.

"Can't promise you I won't get fat, though," he says when they pull away.

"That's okay. I'd still take you over Dan Stark any day."