It's Tuesday night and Gareth is making her do two things she hates: chop onions and debate economics.

Laurel wouldn't describe herself as a socialist, exactly, but this is still one venue of opinion in which they dramatically clash. And on top of that, it's one that she doesn't really understand that well. She's been steeped in political discourse her entire life, but once she starts to get down in the weeds of the country's economy, she loses her way. And Gareth has one of his two bachelor's degrees in it, so he has her at a disadvantage.

For instance, he's clearly winning this argument.

And she's crying. Because of the onions.

"Well, what we're doing right now isn't working," she says, trying to wipe her eyes with the backs of her wrists.

"Neither has socialism, historically speaking," he says.

"Fine," she says, dropping the knife into the sink as she finishes with the onions. "Maybe there's no good way to do things."

"Watch out," he laughs as she washes her hands. By the time she's done he's thankfully added the onions to the pan to simmer, and the noxious fumes have begun to clear. "The DC cynicism is getting to you."

"It's a good thing I'm leaving next month," she comments off-hand.

He doesn't respond and they lapse into an awkward silence. He stirs the sauce with a single-minded focus and she pours herself a glass of wine. Then, abruptly, he continues like there wasn't a minute long gap in their rapport.

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," he says, still staring at the stove.

"About what?"

"When you're leaving," he says.

She leans up against the counter next to the stove it make it harder for him to avoid eye contact. "My last day at work is the Friday after the election," she says, and he glances up at her.

"And then what happens?" he says.

"I don't know," she says, setting her wine glass down on the counter and crossing her arms over her chest. "Then I go back to LA, I guess."

"Are you flying out that night or are you going to stay the weekend?" he asks dryly—almost bitterly, and she feels like she's been ambushed.

"I'll send you my itinerary," she says.

"I don't want your itinerary," he says. "I want to not feel like I'm going to wake up one morning and find out you're gone."

Any responses she might've had, even the defensive and infantile ones, get caught up in her throat. She lets out a strangled sound, but he doesn't give her time to recoup.

"You know what I meant. I'm asking what's going to happen with us."

"Nothing's going to happen with us," she says, even though she's not sure why she's digging her feet in, exactly, besides the panic. For all she's been dreading this conversation she never put a lot of thought into what she'd say during it. "I'm going back to LA in November. You always knew that was the plan."

"Right," he says. "I just don't understand—what are you—are we just going to stop talking, when you leave? You get on the plane and I never see you again?"

"We can't exactly do the hook-up thing long distance," she says.

"That's not what this is and you know it," he says, turning the stove off even though the food's not done and moving into the living room. She hangs back and watches him lean his weight on the back of the couch.

Her head is swimming uncomfortably and her fight-or-flight instinct is kicking in hard. He's right, the little voice in the back of her head tells her. But you're still leaving, she reminds herself. She's got to go back to LA. No—she wants to go back to LA. It's where her life is. This was always meant to be temporary. And long distance relationships never work; they fizzle out over weeks or months and it's always painful. If she's going to hang this relationship, she'd rather its neck just break and have it be over with.

"Remember what you said when we got together?" he asks when she fails to respond.

"Maybe," she says. "Which part?"

He turns around and sits against the back of the couch, fully facing her. It leaves a good twenty feet between them, but the space still seems small. "You said there wasn't a point in thinking long term because there wasn't even really a guaranteed short term."

"Yeah, I remember," she says.

"I want the long term," he says.

"Well, there isn't one," she snaps, because the fact that he's asking now is too much for her to process. "I'm not staying here."

"I know," he begins.

"I'm going back to Los Angeles," she continues without waiting for him to finish.

"I know, but—"

"There's no way to make that work," she says. They're not exactly shouting, but their volume has been on a steady increase over the course of the exchange, and her next interjection is definitely pushing the boundary: "There just isn't."

"There are solutions," he says.

"What, talking on the phone?" she asks. "Would you really be happy with that?"

"We could visit on weekends—"

"It's a five hour flight," she says.

"I know it is, but that would be better than—"

"It'd be expensive and exhausting and it still wouldn't—"

"It would just be temporary, Laurel," he interrupts, running a hand through his hair. "Until we figured something out."

"What's your brilliant permanent solution to this problem?" she asks, breaking eye contact with him.

"I don't know. I could move—"

"Don't," she says, holding up her hand to shut him up. "Don't say something like that just so you can win the argument."

"I'm not," he says.

"You're not going to move to Los Angeles," she protests, although the words come out lacking the venom she'd intended them to have.

"Maybe I would," he snaps, firmly in shouting territory himself. She must look affronted, because he takes a second to compose himself before continuing. "It might be something I'd consider," he says, and she turns around to retrieve her wine glass. "I don't know. It's hard to make decisions like that when you won't talk to me about anything."

"I'm not going to take the blame here," she says, downing the rest of her wine. He's crossed the room back into the kitchen and she can feel him hovering by her shoulder. "I've been really straightforward."

"No you haven't," he rebukes gently, which is almost more infuriating than the yelling. "I know what you said when we started seeing each other, but we weren't ever that casual. And we're definitely not now. You might as well live here."

Her face screws up involuntarily. "What does that mean?" she asks.

"When's the last time you spent the whole night at your place?" he challenges, and she has to admit that she can't quite call a concrete date to mind. She chews her tongue. "You draw these arbitrary lines, but that doesn't make this something it's not. You know, just because you don't leave your things here or you won't tell your family—"

"That's not why I haven't told my family," she interrupts.

"Then why haven't you?"

"Because they're awful," she says. "Because they can't keep their noses out of my business, and if they knew they'd make my life hell, and I'd only catch half the flak they'd give you."

"Well," he says. "It makes me feel like you're planning for a clean break."

"I'm doing it for your benefit," she continues instead of responding to that.

"Then tell them," he says.

She gapes for a second like a fish out of water. "What?" she asks.

"If you're doing it for my sake, and I want you to tell them, then why wouldn't you just tell them?"

"Does it really matter, at this point?" she asks.

"It does to me," he says.

"It wouldn't change anything," she says instead of asking him if he's serious, because (for some reason) he clearly is. "There's still the distance…"

"It doesn't matter. Just tell them. Or, just… just say you're in," he says. "And I promise we can figure all that out."

But that's still too much, way too much to process, let alone handle. And this isn't what she came here for tonight. She gives him a once over – the downturned corners of his mouth, the tense line of his shoulders, his hand laid palm down on the counter.

"Look," she says, reaching out and twining her fingers through one of his belt loops to tug him closer to her. "I don't want to think about it right now. It's still five weeks away. Can't we…" She gestures to the still half-cooked meal on the stove, the open wine bottle on the counter, the already-set kitchen table.

"No," he says.

"No?"

"I… Laurel, I can't act like everything's normal with a countdown looming over my head," he says, wrapping his hand around her wrist to disentangle her grip. "It's not a lot to ask. If you have to think about it, maybe you should do it at your place."

It takes her a second to process his words, but when she does she jerks her hand away from his. "Are you seriously kicking me out?"

"I'm asking you to stay," he says.

"But only if I agree to do what you want," she snaps back.

"I think it's what you want, too," he says.

But he can't know what she wants, because she doesn't know what she wants – not a hundred percent, anyway. She grits her teeth for a second, so hard she's scared they might crack. And then all at once she bursts forward and grabs her shoes off the floor, her coat off a chair, her bag off the couch. She gathers them up in her arms without trying to put herself together.

He takes a second to react, but then follows her to the door as she's pulling it open. "Laurel," he says, moving with a half-hearted effort, like he already knows the outcome is inevitable. "Come on. Don't run away."

"I'm not running away," she says, turning on her heel in the doorway. "You're making me leave."

She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn't; he just fixes her with a serious, solemn look. She feels like an idiot, standing with one stocking foot into the hallway and all her things clutched awkwardly to her chest, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Enough's enough.

"I'll see you at work," she says at length, and then turns to flee down the hallway.

She doesn't look back before entering the stairwell at the end of the hall, but she doesn't hear his front door close behind her, either.

Laurel doesn't go back to her apartment.

She walks around the block and past Gareth's building three times, but doesn't go back inside. She considers going home again, but gives the notion up; she's too restless. Finally she catches a cab and gives the driver the first address that comes to mind.

Since the sex scandal broke, Luke's been sleeping in his home office instead of the master bedroom. And in the hope she might not wake up Germaine or the baby, Laurel creeps around the side of the house and taps directly on the sliding glass door instead of ringing the doorbell.

The shock on Luke's face when he pulls back the curtain to find her standing there in the dark would almost be comical in any other situation, but instead she bursts out in ugly tears before he even has the door all the way open.

"Woah, hey," he says, pulling her inside as he hugs her. "What happened?"

He has to ask her two more times before she gets a coherent answer out, and even then she only manages it because his own panic is clearly reaching a crisis point. It's hard to say, though – especially when it's prefaced by no, nobody's dead, I'm not hurt, it's not an emergency.

She gets out first that she was kind-of-dumped, kind-of-walked-out on someone. And then, somewhere in the backwards avalanche of details she provide to contextualize this information, she lets out that the someone in question is Gareth. To his credit, Luke seems to take this in relative stride along with everything else, but that is the juncture at which he asks her to start from the top.

"I don't even know why I'm so upset," she says as she wraps up the whole story. They've moved to the sofa in the living room, slouched down in their seats with their feet up on the coffee table. She wipes her eyes a final time as she speaks, looking up at the slanting ceiling instead of at her brother.

"Yes you do," Luke says, and she offers him a withering glare side-long. "Don't look at me like that. You do."

"Maybe," she sighs. "Yeah."

Luke hasn't offered her any practical advice, but that's not really what she came here for. Honestly, just sitting in silence with him is enough. It's been a long time since she actually told him about one of her break-ups. She'd always call him when her middle and high school relationships had gone up in flames, and he'd always drive her out to a diner and buy her a milkshake no matter what hour of the day it was. They were closer in their adolescent years; adulthood has opened a chasm between them that she doesn't try to bridge often enough.

"I knew you were sleeping with him," Luke adds after a long silence.

And there's the teasing she expected. The teasing always makes her feel better, though.

"You did not," she says with a snuffly laugh.

"I had serious suspicions," Luke says.

"Before or after you made me date him as a publicity stunt?" Laurel asks.

"First of all, we both know I couldn't make you do anything if you didn't actually want to do it," Luke says. "And second of all, before. Way before."

"You're the worst," Laurel says.

"Yeah," Luke agrees, but he does it laughingly.

Down the hall, Graham releases a damp and wailing sob.

"Great," Luke sighs, patting Laurel on the knee as he stands up. "Now I have two crying babies to deal with."

While Luke's checking on Graham, Laurel checks her phone. She doesn't have any messages or missed calls, and it's pushing one in the morning. She wonders idly if Gareth is still awake. He'd be asleep by now, most nights.

She taps her fingernails on her phone case and stares at the call button.

Before she has time to make any snap decisions, though, Luke returns with the baby, whose fussing has settled down into a much more gentle babble of half-sounds.

"It's Aunt Laurel," Luke tells Graham as he sits down on the sofa again.

"Hi," she coos, holding out her arms. Luke passes the baby over without much hesitation, and settles in as Laurel cradles Graham in her arms.

"Impossible to be sad when you're looking at that face," Luke says.

"Yes it is," Laurel says, still in that stupid talking-to-a-baby voice she can't stop herself from doing. Graham's got her index finger in an impressive vice grip. "He's getting strong," she adds, grown-up style.

"And big, right?" Luke agrees. "He's going to be a linebacker for sure."

"Glad you're already planning his life for him," Laurel says.

"Well, I have to have expectations or he won't be able to feel like a disappointment," Luke says. "It's just the circle of life, you know."

"Wow. Dad really messed you up."

"I'm kidding," Luke says. "He could play safety and I'd still be proud of him."

"What if he plays soccer?" Laurel asks.

"That's unacceptable," Luke says, and they both laugh. Graham laughs too, and it's adorable. Luke must notice that she's affected by this, because he shifts gears quickly. "You know," he says. "Babies grow up fast."

"I'm familiar with the concept of aging, yes," she agrees, although she does it without her usual bite or volume, because Graham's nodding off again.

"Pretty soon he's going to be talking and walking…" Luke says.

"Maxing out his first credit card," Laurel continues in a deadpan. "Totaling a 2032 Prius."

"I'm just saying," Luke says. "There's gonna be a lot of stuff happening in the next year that you maybe don't want to miss."

"I know what you're saying," Laurel says quietly.

"It's okay if you want the same thing for yourself that your family wants for you," Luke says as she smooths down one of Graham's dark cowlick curls. "Nobody's going to think less of you for it."

And for all she loves her brother, she still can't help but feel a pang of suspicion at it all. He's told her candidly that he wants her to be his deputy communications director; the position will be vacant after the election when Scarlett is replaced as chief of staff and everyone else shuffles up the line of duty. But using his four-month old son as leverage would be playing dirty, even for a Healy man.

"I hope you never go into politics," she whispers to Graham as she gingerly hands him over to Luke.

"Funny," Luke says, standing up. Before he goes back to Graham's room, though, he pauses one last time and fixes her with a look. "Think about it, okay?"

"Yeah," Laurel says, looking at her phone where it still rests face-down on the sofa cushion. "Yeah, I'll think about it."

Laurel stays home from work on Wednesday and instead opts to spend the day feeling sorry for herself.

It's not her style; usually when a relationship goes south it makes her want to get out of the house and do something good. But she's smart enough to realize that her current misery is at least a little bit self-imposed, and on top of that her current job isn't exactly big on the satisfying accomplishments anyway.

It's noon, she's still in her pajamas, and she's contemplating how she can get Rochelle to commiserate with her without telling her to just suck it up and talk out her issues (which is the sound advice she knows she'd get) when her phone rings. She sits up to answer it without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?" she says.

"Your boyfriend is skulking around the office," Luke informs her without so much as a word of greeting.

She flops back against her pillow, absorbing the information. "Define skulking," she says.

"Loitering. Looking dejected. Asking the staffers when you'll be back," Luke says. "He didn't bring any flowers, though," he adds disapprovingly.

"Why would he bring flowers to my office?" she asks.

"Contrition."

"That's not really—"

"Now he's checking your door to see if you're in there after all," Luke interjects. "For someone so good at his job, he's not very smart."

"Are you just standing around watching him?" Laurel asks, suddenly mortified by the prospect.

"No," Luke says. "I'm in my office. He's skulking in my line of sight. Why? Do you want me to go out there and tell him you moved to Melanesia?" Luke asks. Then, after a beat: "Laurel?"

"Sorry," she says. "I was reeling over the fact that you actually know where the Solomon Islands are."

"I've been brushing up on foreign policy," he says.

"Don't talk to him, please," she says, rolling over and pressing her face into her pillow for a second before continuing. "In fact, stop looking at him. Just don't interact with him at all."

"Oops," Luke says. "He saw me."

"Oh my God. Luke," she complains.

"Should I wave?"

"Do not wave," she says, although it's followed by a guilty silence on the other end of the line in which he is definitely, absolutely waving at Gareth. "You are so embarrassing," she says.

"Ah, he's lucky I don't beat him up," Luke says.

"Turn the big brother dial down three notches," she says.

"He made you cry, Laurel," Luke says.

"Leave Gareth alone," she reiterates.

"Okay, okay," he says, although as far as promises go it's a pretty tepid-sounding one. "You have to come to work tomorrow, by the way," he informs her. "One day paid pity party only."

"I'll try to pull myself together," she says.

"Bye," Luke says.

"Bye," she says, and drops the phone on her bed and pressing the heels of her hands hard into her eyes.

So, he's looking for her in her office.

The logical conclusion is that he wants to talk to her about something, and she can't help but wonder what it might be. But even though her curiosity is dangerously morbid, there's no denying the simple fact that if he really wanted to talk to her, he could just call. That hasn't happened; he hasn't even texted.

She glances at her phone's dark screen from beneath her hand, which she still has melodramatically draped across her eyes.

Annoyingly, Luke is right. Sitting around and wallowing isn't doing her any good. All she's accomplished so far today is coming up with another handful of half-baked reasons why staying in DC would be impossible. And sitting around trying to talk herself out of something she isn't fully sure she doesn't want to do is an awful use of her time.

She throws back her covers and clamors out of bed. There's got to be something she can do to clear her head.

Six hours later and Laurel's apartment is as clean as it's ever been, but she hasn't figured out what to do about Luke's job offer.

Or Gareth.

And still bereft of his cooking skills, she doesn't have many options for dinner besides ordering out.

After shuffling through the take-out menus that live on her kitchen counter, she eventually settles on Thai food. It doesn't even occur to her that she might have subconsciously chosen the Thai place because it's Wednesday, and she and Gareth ate there together exclusively on Fridays – until she arrives at the restaurant to pick up her order and sees him standing at the counter, also waiting.

She freezes in the doorway, but before she can decide what to do, he glances up reflexively at the sound of the bell. He must have had the same notion as her about Thai being a safe bet, because he looks unpleasantly surprised to see her there, too.

Every hour or so this afternoon, she had entertained the idea of calling him. But he hadn't contacted her, and she hadn't wanted to reach out first without any solid news one way or the other. And since she still doesn't have anything to say to him, really, her flight or fight response is kicking in hard. Running away would be childish and stupid, though, and she knows it.

"Hey," she says cautiously as she approaches the counter.

"Hey," he says, his body twisted at a vaguely awkward angle, like he can't decide whether or not he should face her. A beat elapses before he continues. "You weren't at work today."

"I know," she says, even though she obviously should know her own whereabouts. Luckily for her, they're interrupted briefly as Gareth's order comes up and he pays for it, but even given the easy out he doesn't leave immediately.

"I tried to stop by your office," he says. It's a valiant effort at putting the conversation back on track, and the next thing she asks should be what did you want to talk about?, but the remark just reminds her of the waving incident. Her nose crinkles in embarrassment and distaste.

"Did my brother talk to you?" she asks.

"No," Gareth says, shifting the bag of food uncomfortably in his arms. "No, he didn't. But… you told him?"

"Yeah," Laurel says. "I just—I needed to talk to someone about it," she says.

"Sure," Gareth says.

"But I asked him to—" Laurel says, tripping over her own words. "He won't bother you or anything," she settles on.

"Good," he says. "I gotta go," he adds after a second, gesturing towards the door.

"See you around," Laurel says.

"Yeah," he agrees, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turns to leave.

And maybe she was imagining it, but he almost sounded disappointed to hear Luke wouldn't be giving him grief.

Laurel's back at work the next day, as per Luke's demands, but she still isn't exactly working. She spends the majority of the morning exchanging emails with her landlord (happy to re-up her lease with a reasonable price hike) and her tenants in Los Angeles (delighted to continue renting). Both exchanges go so smoothly that she stares at her laptop screen chewing her tongue for a minute before moving on to her next sticking point.

With work and accommodations sorted out, she falls back on her primary concern: finishing her documentary. The money is still an issue, but she's got her father's promised hundred grand, and she's filmed projects on tighter budgets before.

At half past ten she calls her production partner, who sounds very much like he just rolled out of bed. Jae's been her co-conspirator and sound guy since they were in film school together, and the idea of finishing her project without his support is nearly unfathomable to her, so she won't go forward without him.

But when she haltingly asks if another year collecting funds is worth the effort, his response isn't what she'd expected (something like "Screw DC! It's been forever and we miss you at bar night. Come home and we'll figure it out") and is instead patently enthusiastic (he's booked a job that'll take him to Iceland for ten months, which he's been dreading telling her about since it conflicted with their previously planned shoot, and he closes the conversation with a well-meant "Take as long as you need!").

She hangs up the phone feeling a little blindsided and a lot out of excuses.

Lunch with Gustav doesn't do much to help, either; when she asks him when he thinks the bug stuff will be over, he fixes her with a solemn look and tells her point-blank "It might never be over".

By the time she returns to the office, her resolve is more or less steeled.

"I want the job," she tells Luke before the door to his office has even swung shut behind her.

He glances up at her, then leans back in his chair appraisingly.

"That was quick," he says.

Laurel rolls her eyes and drops her purse on the floor as she sinks into one of the chairs across from him. "Can I do anything in this family without being criticized?" she asks.

"I wasn't criticizing," Luke says.

"It feels a little bit like you are," she says.

"I guess I'm just surprised," Luke begins, and she already feels her eyes preparing to roll out of her skull at his tone of voice. "That you'd make a big life decision like this over a guy."

She makes a soft noise of disgust in response, not even sure where she should start cracking in on all the reasons why that constitutes criticism. "That's so not what's going on here," she says instead.

"Really?" Luke says, returning his attention to whatever he was working on before she came in. "Because nothing else has changed."

"You're not allowed to make fun of me for saying this," she says, which draws his full attention again. "But it kind of feels like the universe was pushing me in this direction." To his credit, he doesn't audibly laugh, but the amusement is still there in his expression. She continues defensively: "Everything just kind of worked out, all right?"

"Okay, okay," he says. "Well, I'm glad you listened to the universe."

"Me too," she agrees, standing up to go. Before she reaches the door, though, she turns around again. "Hey, could you not mention this to Dad?" she asks.

"Which part?" Luke asks. "The job, or that you're staying in town, or the secret boyfriend you're definitely not basing your decisions on?"

"The job," she says, and then backpedals. "Any of it."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Why?"

"The crowdfunding campaign didn't go well so I figured I'd try to shake him down for the rest of the money," she says, even though the words leave a bitter taste on her tongue. "And if he knows I'm going to stay either way I lose that whole… bargaining chip."

"Makes sense. Let me know if you need help," he says. Luke's willingness to participate in a plan would usually be enough to turn her off it entirely, but she does need the money, so she just tries to swallow her pride.

Everything's working out, she reminds herself, and maybe sometimes the ends do justify the means.

It's not like, up to this point, Laurel's relationship with Gareth has been all smooth sailing. Just the opposite, actually. It's pretty much been the Magellan's Strait of her romantic life.

But resolving the many arguments they've had has always been easy: he's never declined an apology from her, and the single time she'd shot him down she had caved the next day, anyway. Still, as she heads over to Gareth's apartment after work, her stomach twists itself into anxious knots.

She lets herself in downstairs, but hesitates outside his apartment door. His key is still on her keyring, but just walking into his apartment unannounced feels inappropriate when they're on uncertain terms. After loitering for a minute or so, she finally plucks up the courage to knock on the door.

Gareth answers quickly, and seems surprised to see her there – albeit in a good way, this time.

"Laurel," he says. "Hey."

"Do you have a second?" she asks, stepping forward across the threshold.

"Uh, actually…" he stutters, moving instinctively to block her from entering.

"What," she says. "Do you have another girl in there?"

He glances back towards his kitchen and hesitates in answering just long enough for a cold pit to settle in Laurel's stomach.

"Oh," she says. "Okay. Nevermind," she says, turning to leave. He catches her wrist in his hand and pulls her back, though.

"No. No. It's just…" he starts, and then shuffles aside to let the door to his apartment swing further open. "My sister's visiting."

"Oh," Laurel says again, feeling supremely stupid and a little vulnerable.

"Hey, Cathy?" he calls out before she has time to formulate an actual response.

"Yeah?" someone responds from the kitchen.

"Laurel's here," Gareth says.

There's a pause, and Laurel can hear her shuffling something around in the kitchen before walking over to the front door. While she's still out of sight, Gareth turns around so he can speak to her more directly, maybe at her prompting. Laurel can't hear everything they say, but she's pretty sure the exchange culminates in Gareth saying "I didn't ask her."

Finally, Cathy sticks her head out from behind the doorframe, although she hangs behind Gareth instead of stepping out into the open. "Hi," she says.

Gareth's sister is a pretty but reedy-looking girl; she's almost as tall as her brother, and taller than Laurel is even in her heels. Laurel's only ever seen her in pictures before, and she looks younger in real life, maybe thanks to her thick-rimmed glasses magnifying her already doelike blue eyes or the fact that her thick mess of blonde hair is up in a pep-squad style ponytail tied with a ribbon.

"Hi, Cathy," Laurel says. "I'm Laurel. It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"Nice to meet you too," she says, and then returns her attention to her brother. "There's only enough food for two people," she says in an aside.

"Oh, that's okay," Laurel says, taking a reflexive step backwards into the hall. "I can't stay."

"You're welcome to, if you want," Gareth hastens to add.

"We're watching The Shining," Cathy adds.

"No," Laurel says, still backing out of the apartment. "I know you guys don't get to see each other very often."

"I think Cathy had some questions she wanted to ask you, actually," he continues over her.

"Me?" Laurel asks, gesturing to herself. He nods. "All right," she says, glancing over at Cathy.

"I'm applying to UCLA for grad school," she says.

There's a question or two buried in there for sure, but Laurel's a little caught off-guard by the fact that Cathy already seems to know that she went to UCLA for film school.

"It's a great school," Laurel says finally. "Are you – were you thinking of going for film?"

"No. For art. Photography," Cathy says, twisting her hair ribbon around her index finger.

"Right, of course," Laurel says. "You took those, didn't you?" Laurel asks, indicating a series of framed Polaroid photos Gareth has displayed in his living room. They're all of the same maple tree, leaves falling or caught on the wind or held up to the sky by a hand, and Laurel has always admired them for their composition and execution.

"When I was twelve," Cathy says. "He won't take them down."

"I like them," Gareth says.

"Okay," Cathy says with a long-suffering affectation.

"I do actually have to go," Laurel continues. "But if you want to talk about grad school sometime, you can call, or email me…"

"Email's better," Cathy says. "I'll write you."

"Perfect," Laurel says. "Well…" she says, gesturing out the door.

"I'll walk you down," Gareth offers, and before she has a chance to respond he's out of the apartment and the door is swinging closed behind him.

They're quiet on the walk down, but the silence as amicable as it is awkward. When they pause on the sidewalk, Laurel tucks her hands into her pockets and glances up at him.

"Sorry about that," he sighs after a second. "I didn't– I wasn't expecting you."

"It's alright," Laurel says, and means it. "I probably should've called ahead."

"You don't have to," he says. "I just didn't mean to spring anything on you."

"She seems nice," Laurel says.

"Yeah," Gareth agrees.

"She knows who I am," Laurel continues with the vague intonation of a question.

He glances skyward as a sheepish smile graces his features. "I talk about you a lot," he admits.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he says.

That makes sense; she knows plenty about Cathy from what he's told her (she's a senior in college, and living on her own for the first time, and sometimes Gareth's anxiety over this strays from "worried big brother" territory to something closer to "fussy mother hen"). But still, the idea that she's a topic of conversation between them to the point that her alma mater is being discussed tickles her a little.

She looks away from him, but she can't quite keep the smirk off her face. "I forgot to give her my email," she says. "Can you pass it along?"

"Sure," he says. "Just as a forewarning, her emails are long. She's an epistolarian."

"That's fine," Laurel laughs, and the conversation lapses for a moment.

"Did you…" he begins, ruffling his hair as he glances down at his feet. "Did you need something, when you came over?"

"Yeah," she says, curling her hands into fists in her coat pockets. "Uhm, I just came over to tell you… I thought about everything. A lot," she adds for emphasis. "And when I took everything into consideration – work, my family… you…" She pauses, glancing up to gauge his reaction. His lips are pressed into a tight line, but he doesn't look either concerned or hopeful, just attentive. "It wasn't so hard to make a decision."

"Okay," he says, softly prompting her continue.

It's a little silly, the apprehension she feels over telling him that she's staying. She'd been so adamant in their argument the other night that it feels like – like giving up, or giving a part of herself up. And she means it when she says there were a lot of factors that went into it, but Luke already thinks she made the decision because of Gareth, and she doesn't know if she can handle Gareth thinking that too.

After a moment of chewing her tongue, she just vaults forward: "I took a job in my brother's office. A more permanent one. I start after the election."

"You're staying?"

"Yeah," she says. "For a year, at least. I'm going to be the deputy communications director, so this is going to be kind of a nightmare, ethically..." she says, gesturing between them.

"We can figure it out," he says.

"And," she says before she loses the nerve. "My dad's having a party at his house on Saturday."

"You don't actually have to—" he begins.

"Oh no," she says. "You're not getting out of this now."

"I'd love to go to the party with you," he tries again.

"That's what I thought," she says with a resolute nod, and he cracks a smile.

He breaks the distance between them first, reaching out to pull her into a hug. Even with her arms folded up between them, she settles against him easily and buries her nose in his neck.

"I hate fighting with you," he says against her hair.

"I know," she says.

He kisses the top of her head before pulling away from her; she lets her hands trail down his chest and takes his hands in hers.

"I gotta go back upstairs," he says at length.

"Alright," she says. "I'll see you at work?" she asks.

He nods, but when he turns to go she tugs him back and kisses him soundly. When they break apart, the look on his face makes it clear that his resolve to leave her there is waning with every second, so she pushes him towards his stoop.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" he asks.

"Goodnight," she says by way of response.

"Goodnight," he says.

Friday at work starts off smoothly: she has six constituents on their merry way by lunchtime, and Gareth drops by her office on his lunch break to talk logistics. Cathy's not leaving until the next morning, and Laurel has to have dinner with her father and brother that night anyway, so they make plans to meet up before the party at Laurel's apartment.

Unfortunately for them, by the time Luke interrupts them, they've moved on from scheduling to… less workplace appropriate activities.

"I pay you for this?" Luke asks as he closes Laurel's office door.

"I'm gonna go," Gareth says, already most of the way to the hallway door before she can even tell Luke to get out. She waves goodbye halfheartedly, but much like he'd disentangled himself from her immediately upon hearing the door open, he's gone in a flash.

"Thanks," she deadpans to Luke once the hall door closes.

"I take it the two of you worked things out," Luke says.

"Yeah," Laurel says, turning around so she can focus her attention on the complaint papers spread across her desk. "Did you need something?"

"No," Luke says. "I just noticed he'd been in here awhile."

"We're going to have to have a talk about boundaries," Laurel says, rolling her eyes.

"Don't give me attitude. You're the one necking with your boyfriend at work."

"I'm… on my lunch break," she says, ruffling her own hair absently as she turns around to face him again.

"But seriously," Luke says. "I'm glad everything worked out."

"Oh, now you approve?" Laurel asks.

"I wouldn't go that far," Luke says. "But he clearly likes you more than he likes his job, which isn't something you could say about a lot of the guys around here, so there's that."

"I'll pass on that very high praise," Laurel says.

"No, don't. I want him to be a little scared of me."

"Bye, Luke," she says, waving him away.

As he leaves her office, she mentally adds door that locks to her list of raise demands.

Dinner at her father's is an informal affair; they eat reheated leftovers from the previous night, when he'd had people of actual note and import over, and sit around the too-big dining room table all doing their individual work.

Luke and her father work, anyway. She mostly taps her fingers against her laptop keyboard absently, unable to will any words onto the screen (it's not even work related in the first place; Cathy has indeed written her a long and effusive email about her four top contenders for graduate universities, and Laurel wants to do the reply justice).

Finally, as it's pushing ten o'clock, she bites the bullet.

"Hey, Dad?" she asks.

"Hmm?" he responds, not even looking up from his laptop.

"Can I bring a date to your party tomorrow?" she asks.

Across the table, Luke caps his pen, sets it gingerly down on his legal pad, and steeples his hands together to pay full attention to the conversation.

"Short notice," her father comments. "Are you sure you'll be able to find one?"

"Yes," she says, which finally draws a fraction of her father's attention. "I'm seeing someone, actually."

"A boyfriend," her father comments dryly, which does absolutely nothing to help the extreme deja-vu she's feeling for her high school days, when every one of her dates fell under a similar scrutiny. At least her mother's not here, too. "I didn't realize you were in a serious relationship, dear."

"That was by design," Laurel admits.

"Not that serious, then?" he asks. "Maybe you shouldn't be bringing him to family events."

"It is serious," she says. "And you invited half of DC. I wouldn't call it a family event."

"So who is this mystery man that I haven't already invited? Nobody I know?"

"No," Laurel hedges. "You know him."

"Well?"

She tosses a final, frantic glance at Luke, but he just smirks and raises his eyebrows to indicate his amusement at the whole situation, which is absolutely no help at all.

"Gareth Ritter," she says, trying not to make it sound like a question.

"Oh, Laurel," her father says. From his tone, outside observers might think she'd stabbed him directly in the heart instead of just making an unfortunate social connection. "You're not serious."

"I am," she says. "We've been seeing each other since July."

Her father scoffs in response. "Did you know about this?" he asks Luke.

"I was as shocked as you are," Luke says, chin rested contemplatively on his hands.

"And you want to bring him to the party?" her father continues. "The Secretary of Defense is going to be there, Laurel."

"What do you think he's gonna do? Spit on him?" Laurel challenges.

"I'm just saying, it's not really his crowd," he says.

"Yeah, yeah," Laurel says, waving him off. "I know. He's a Republican and we're Democrats. Can we skip this part?"

"It's a consideration, Laurel," he says.

"I've considered it," she says.

"Please don't be so hostile," her father says, and she leans her head backwards to contemplate the ceiling so she doesn't lose her temper. "I'm worried that you're going to end up getting hurt."

"That's such bullshit, Dad," Laurel says, rolling her neck side to side before sitting up straight again. "You're worried people are going to see us together and that it'll be a little embarrassing for you."

"I want you to be happy, Laurel."

"If that's true, can you just do two things for me?" she asks. Her father makes no indication that she should stop so she continues on. "First, can you please, please just assume that I'm capable of making my own life decisions without shooting myself in the foot? Second, let me bring Gareth to the party and muster all the civility you have left in you and don't say anything rude to him. That would make me happy."

There's a long, tense pause in the room. Luke looks back down at his legal pad. Her father just stares her down.

"Fine," her father says at length. "Bring him to the party."

Thanks to his sister's late departure time on Saturday morning, Gareth can't come over to her apartment until about an hour before they're supposed to leave for the party. So when he arrives, she's admittedly not looking the best she ever has; her makeup's done, at least, but she's wearing a ratty t-shirt over her unfortunately sensible undergarments.

That doesn't stop him from getting handsy with her while she's getting ready, though. She knows the feeling. They haven't had sex since Sunday, and a week is an unprecedented dry spell. But as tempting as his bids at seducing her are, their timetable really doesn't have any wiggle room in it. He manages to get the t-shirt off of her before she dismisses him to the bathroom to get changed so they don't get distracted by each other.

The shoes she's wearing are cute, but they each have three tiny, finicky buckles at the place on her ankle that's hardest for her to reach. She gets the left one on with a little doing, but the right one's even harder to reach with her dominant hand, and she can't quite get the last two buckles done.

Finally, she gives up and flops backwards on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"I thought you were getting dressed," he says as he wanders back into the room.

"I can't get my shoes on," she complains.

"Why don't you put them on after you put on your dress?" he asks.

"Because once I have the dress on I won't be able to reach my feet," she says.

"It's a complicated process, getting you dressed for a party," he says as he approaches her, coming to a halt at her bedside. "Have you considered hiring handmaidens?"

"Why would I hire handmaidens when I have you at my disposal?" she asks, nudging him with her knee.

Although it seems like he's been enjoying the show, he still takes the hint and kneels to fasten her shoe. He makes quick work of the buckles, and his hand lingers on the back of her calf as he refocuses his attention and makes eye contact with her.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," he says, pushing her calf outwards with a gentle, insistent pressure so he can situate himself between her knees. Against her better judgment, she gives way, and squirms towards the edge of the bed as he leans forward.

He kisses her stomach; all her muscles tighten under his touch, and her hips cant upwards when his hand finds the dip of her waist. He kisses her again, and again, each time a half-inch lower, a steady southward progression.

"Hey," she says, letting her nails bite gently into his scalp as she halts his movement. "We've got somewhere to be in an hour."

"I missed you," he says, head bowed toward her.

"It was three days," she says, and he looks up.

"I still missed you," he says. She sits up at that, jostling him away from her (on his knees in front of her isn't a good place for him to be when they're on a schedule), but her hands stay in his hair.

"What was your plan for if I moved back to Los Angeles and you only got to see me on Saturdays?" she asks.

"Miss you a lot," he says.

"Not a great plan," she says as he leans in to kiss her collarbone. "It's a good thing I'm staying."

"Yeah," he sighs against her skin as she again moves to stop him, this time pushing him back gently by the shoulders.

"Focus," she says, straightening his tie. "We've got to get ready for the party."

"You're late," Luke comments as he meets them in the foyer of their father's house. They are; party guests are milling around already, and Luke's clearly had a drink.

"I tried to tell her," Gareth says, and Laurel rolls her eyes.

"Where's Dad?"

"With the DOJ guys over by the wet bar," Luke says. "Hey, by the way, did you talk to him about the money yet? Not talking about the job is killing me."

"I'm honestly amazed you've gone this long without letting the cat out of the bag," Laurel says.

"Seriously, did you ask yet?"

"No," she says, scratching her neck. "But it's okay. Go ahead."

"You sure?" Luke asks.

"Yeah," Laurel says. "You can tell him. Or I will. Whatever."

"Great," he says, and then catches sight of someone over Laurel's shoulder. "Huh," he says. "My wife's here."

Laurel glances in that direction; Germaine offers them a tentative smile and wave of the fingers when she catches their eye.

"I better go see what she wants from me," Luke says, and leaves them.

"And they say romance is dead," Laurel comments to Gareth once Luke's gone. She takes his arm as they start to circulate the party.

"You were going to ask your dad for money?" Gareth asks.

"The other half of the documentary budget," Laurel says. "But, I don't know. I didn't feel good about it."

"But you're still going to finish it, right?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, feeling a little more confident in her statement than she would've five months ago. "I'll figure something out. I always do."

"Good," he says, and she smiles at him.

They've come to the bar and her father is nowhere in sight, but some cursory inquiries as to his location pin him in the living room.

"Stay here and get us drinks," she says, craning her neck to see if she can see her father from this vantage point.

"Why?" Gareth asks.

"I just want to talk to my dad before you do," she says.

"That bad?"

"Don't let him get you alone," she deadpans. "If you see him coming at you, come straight to me. Or my brother. He agreed to help run interference."

"I can't tell if you're being serious," Gareth says.

"Get the drinks," she says, and sets off to find her father.

When she does find him, he's mercifully free of conversational partners, which spares her the trouble of introductions. He doesn't look impressed with her, though.

"You're late," her father says, giving her an appraising once-over. "And you're wearing orange."

"Only thirty minutes, and it's marigold," Laurel says.

"You always have to be the center of attention, don't you?"

"I don't have to be," Laurel says. "I just prefer it."

"Where's your Republican?" her father asks, and she supposes she should just be glad he's done questioning her fashion choices.

"Fetching drinks," Laurel says. "I have him well-trained."

He makes a soft harrumphing noise in response.

"Boy," she says. "I am not on your good side today, am I?"

"You're being ornery," he says. "Like you always are. Would any of this have even happened if I hadn't tried to warn you off him in the first place?"

"I don't know," Laurel says. "Maybe you should try reverse psychology on me."

He rolls his eyes, but he also cracks a smile, and his scoff doesn't quite disguise his laugh.

"Please be nice to Gareth," she implores him a final time.

"You are by far my most difficult child," he says.

"I get it from you," she says, and pecks him on the cheek as she goes.

Laurel gets waylaid in the garden by a second surprise guest to the party: her mother. It's an awful lot of parental interaction for a ten-minute period, and she has to suffer through the orange dress criticism a second time.

She's also caught wind of the rumor that Laurel's brought a Republican chief of staff as her date, but her mother's all passive where her father is aggressive, and it doesn't get commented on as much as Laurel would've thought it might. In fact, her mother seems perfectly amenable to meeting Gareth.

Which is the point in the conversation when Laurel haltingly realizes that she hasn't seen him in, like, fifteen minutes – and it definitely doesn't take that long to get drinks.

She does one lap of the house without successfully locating him, and by the time she's on her second she's really starting to get worried.

"Hey, have you seen Gareth?" she asks as she elbows her way into a circle of senators Luke is talking to.

"Yeah," Luke says. "He was talking to Dad."

Unbelievable, Laurel thinks. "I leave them alone for five seconds," she gripes aloud.

"Looking for your date?" Germaine asks. Laurel nods. "I saw him heading upstairs."

"Thank you," she says, glad that there's at least one level-headed and helpful person in her family.

She finds him on the third floor, where none of the other party guests have bothered to wander, looking at a hallway bookshelf full of knick-knacks and keepsakes.

"Hey," she says.

In response, he holds up a framed portrait of her as a child, missing all six of her front teeth.

"Shut up," she says.

"You're cute," he laughs.

"I fell off my bike," she says. "It took a year for my top teeth to come in."

"And braces, too," he says, gesturing to a picture of her at Luke's high school graduation. "Tough break."

"Okay," she says, taking the photograph away from him. "Enough embarrassing baby pictures for tonight."

"No, it's nice getting a glimpse into your childhood," he says. "Where's your room?"

"My dad turned it into the Batcave while I was in California," she says. "He's got like twenty computers in there."

"Ah," he says. "Too bad."

"Did he talk to you?" Laurel asks.

"Don't worry about it," Gareth says, too quickly, and she narrows her eyes at him. "Honestly," he continues. "It was fine."

"Fine how?" she asks.

"He was very affable," Gareth says.

"Did he say something rude, but in a friendly tone of voice?" she asks. "That's his move. Confuse his opponents."

"It was all very non-combative," Gareth assures her.

"Come on," she insists. "He said something that's bothering you. Just tell me what it was."

Gareth thinks for a moment, then sighs through his nose. "Fine," he says. "He was very polite to me, but he did sort of imply that the only reason he was willing to put up with me – he didn't say this outright, by the way," he interrupts himself.

"He never does. Tell me."

"He implied that he was fine with me being around right now because I'm temporary."

"What?"

"He said you'd get bored of me eventually," he elaborates.

"Oh," Laurel says, and clears her throat. "Yeah, that sounds like something he'd say."

Gareth doesn't respond, but he does reach out to take her hand, and she lets him lace his fingers through hers and tug her a little closer to him. She remembers all at once that they're not trying to hide their relationship anymore. The cautionary two-foot gap she's grown accustomed to leaving isn't necessary. She rests her other arm on his chest and leans her weight up against him.

"You know that's not true, right?" she says.

"I know," he says. "I know you're not going to get bored of me," he clarifies.

"You think you're temporary?" she asks.

"No," he hastens to say. "But – I don't know. We haven't had a chance to talk, really. And you'll still have to leave eventually."

"But we've got an entire year to figure things out," she says. "And… I'm in, okay? For the long term."

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, standing up straight and tugging him towards the staircase. "Now, come on. My mom's downstairs and she wants to meet you."

"Your mom's here too?" he asks, although he admirably does not blanch at the information.

"It's a classic Healy family sneak attack," she says. "You'll get used to it."

"Can't we just leave out the back and go home?" he suggests.

"No way," Laurel says. "I wrote Luke's speech for him and it's my first one. We can't leave until it's over."

"No," he agrees, squeezing her hand in his. "We definitely wouldn't want to miss that."