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."

Wakeful in Washington...

I’m slowly and blissfully sinking into much-needed, well-deserved sleep, with Josh’s arms around my waist, as became our custom years ago. The nearness of him never gets old, not even now that we’ve been together longer than we were, well, not.

“Daddy.”

Her first word ever. And since then, ever her first word.

“Daddy.”

Maybe her devotion to him is something she picked up from me, in which case there definitely shouldn’t be that slight pinching feeling around my heart when she always calls for him first. But...

She’s louder, more insistent this time. “Daddy. I can’t sleep.”

Josh untangles himself from me, running his hand down my arm to underline his reluctance at leaving me. That doesn’t get old either. Even in half-asleep states such as this one, I know awide grin is creeping across my face. I smile a lot these days. There’s worry, of course, arguments sometimes, there are sleepless nights not always for the right reasons, and there’s more time apart than I would choose, but there is a lot of smiling.

“Hey, Pumpkin.”

He scoops her up in his arms, and she wraps her arms around him, blonde curls not so much framing her bleary-eyed face as messily crowding around it, as if in her toddlerhood she had missed the edges when coloring herself in.

“You tried naming the States like I taught you?” He’s carrying her to her bedroom, putting her back in bed I guess, sliding her hair behind her ear as he loves to do with both of us.

I can imagine her earnest nodding, her wide blue eyes looking up at the only man who matters to her. (Long may that last.) “But I forgot Wisconsin and I had to look it up on that list you made for me.”

She forgot Wisconsin? How can she forget the place she spends every other Christmas and countless other holidays? I bet she didn’t forget Connecticut.

“So then I did it again and I even remembered all the M states and the New States and even Ohio and stuff, ‘cause that’s where Aunt CJ comes from even though I always forget, and Washington that’s a state even though Washington DC isn’t...”

This little girl will go far.

Or maybe not so far from here. The White House is in her blood. Her father would have the head of any boss who had her there till 1 am, no matter how charming. I shudder to think what he would do to one who bought her flowers and sabotaged her dates. He will have to be kept firmly under control. Still, I have a good few years to think of a workable strategy.

“So then I did them all and I still wasn’t asleep.”

“Did you try listing the Presidents?”

“Yeah. But it only works when we do it together.”

His dimples will be telling her that he loves being the centre of her world. So easily sweet-talked by his darling daughter. There’s a reason we called her Abigail – “father’s joy”. When he held her for the first time, he was transfixed. Imagine that – Josh Lyman, speechless. I recognised the tenderness and the wonder I saw in his eyes in a hospital on a much less happy day, years ago, miles away, when he couldn’t say “I love you”. This time he could, and he did, to both of us.

“How did we make something so beautiful?” He still often asks me that. I smile and remind him it was actually me who did most of the work.

“So I guess it’s kind of fair that she looks so much like you,” he’ll usually conclude, but every time I’m sure I detect just the slightest hint of envy in his tone.

“Not that I mind,” he’ll add, and kiss me. So it’s a conversation I really don’t mind having over and over. Another thing that never gets old. Unlike our daughter, sadly.... I want to keep her at seven forever. She’s her mother’s joy too. I hope that will not change with age.

I imagine he’s lying on her bed next to her now, as he often does, transfixed again by her loveliness and her bright mind as though discovering her for the first time, taking her little hand in his, counting off on her fingers, as they go through their routine. “George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson...”

Safely wrapped up in her daddy, Abi’s voice is drifting to the happy place of sweet dreams and turning to a whisper. She does make it to the end, though. “Uncle Jed, Uncle Matt, Uncle Sam, and you.”

Even when she’s only half-awake, she’s a pretty stubborn and determined little girl (guess it’s what you could call a dominant gene) and there is no point arguing with her.

But Josh, probably kneeling now and leaning over to brush the hair from her forehead and kiss her goodnight, does always add, “Someone’s gotta be the guy those guys count on. That’s my role.” This may be his way of letting her down gently, but I think perhaps it’s a little subtle for a seven-year-old. Still, at least she won’t be able to claim in later life he didn’t warn her.

“Good night, Princess.”

“Good night, daddy.”

He walks away, probably backwards – yes, definitely backwards, I hear a muffled “ouch” as he bumped into the wall behind him – so he can steal as much of a glance of her as possible. I wonder, did he ever do that with me?

“Daddy?” Her sleepy voice calls him back.

“You’re my favorite President.”

Out, I assume, come the dimples as his smile, his whole self, expand with pride. This isn't part of the routine. This is straight from the heart.

“Hey.” He climbs back into bed, strokes my leg with his foot, treasuring the closeness that never gets old to him either.

“Hey,” I say, as tenderly as I can because there’s something I want to clear up and I don’t want it to sound like a rebuke when I do. “You’re not going to become President just because your daughter asked you to, are you?” I’m hoping my voice doesn’t betray my increased heart rate. This question has actually been wandering around my subconscious for quite a long time now, and not only my subconscious: Helen and I have a lunch planned. You know, just... in case. I want to be ready. You never know, do you?

“There are worse reasons,” he whispers softly in my ear, then nuzzles into my neck, kissing me gently.

I love it when he does this. He knows it, too. “Josh.”

"Mmmm?"

“You’ll always be my favorite President, too.”

That discussion can wait. Come to think of it, so can sleep.