A/N: 'Olla Amigos! My aim is to write a little drabble each day until the new season starts *cough* lets see how long that lasts, but here's the first day! This was started forever ago and then finished tonight because I have a lot of feelings about Mackenzie's hand on Will's hip in the desert promo. You know the one. The one that almost killed us ;)
Will's breathing deep and trying to stay still and not close his eyes and all he can think is that this hurts.
It's Friday afternoon and he has a broadcast in less than four hours. For some reason Mackenzie has been voted today's medic and that's how he's found himself with her stood between his legs, breath stuttering against his cheek as she presses her fingers into his forehead around the blood.
"How did it happen?" she mutters worriedly and Will would roll his eyes if it didn't send pain arching across his forehead. It's really not a gallant story.
"Maggie," he grunts, "Maggie was trying to reach the coffee in the top cupboard."
Mackenzie dabs at his temple and makes a small tutting noise in understanding, as if she were soothing a child. He's seated on the edge of his desk, legs splayed out so she can stand close and it's taking all his will power not to casually drop his hands to her waist as she rocks forward.
He could blame it on the pain, he ponders. Tell her he's dizzy and needs the added balance. But the smell of lilacs at her collarbone is similar to what it was 5 years ago and that alone has kept him somber and concentrated studiously on the curve of her neck.
"I never knew coffee could be so dangerous," she murmurs, more to fill the silence then make actual conversation and he admires her stoic approach to the situation. It can't be comfortable being pressed into his personal space and he doesn't know how he'd react if he had administer the same care to her.
It's strange being this close again.
The lines of her face are the same; her breath warm and tingly and she still smells of lilacs. There are a few more crinkles around her eyes, hardly noticeable if he hadn't spent too many mornings in the past mapping the dip from her temple to her nose whilst she was sleeping. Now, her eyes are dark and focused on his forehead and he gets lost watching them flicker across his skin.
"You should be more careful," she huffs, and the breath pushes against his cheek in a hot rush. He feels it down to his spine and hates that his body still reacts to her, like it's confused as to why he's no longer allowed to taste and touch.
He misses her in so many tiny, stupid ways.
Sometimes when they would go out to dinner, or the theatre, or out with friends Mackenzie would rest her hand low around his back and it would end up on his hip, hot and possessive and clinging and he still finds himself missing that aching warmth.
When she was sleepy and wandering around the apartment in leggings and too long sweaters and socks she would knock her forehead into his shoulder to get his attention, as if the effort of speaking was too much and instead found it easier to crawl up into his personal space, like a goddamn cat.
In summer she would complain constantly, sick of the heat and the sweat and the horrible humid feeling beneath the sheets at night. She'd push and shove at Will and grumble that he was hot like a furnace and yet he'd still wake in the morning to find her with a hand or an arm or even a foot tangled across him.
He misses arguing over the crossword with her. Misses stealing the remote from her nimble fingers and feeling her arms worm around his chest as she'd fight back. Misses listening to her talk endlessly about Russia and Sudan and Tokyo and all the other millions of places she's visited; really misses listening to her speak French and Russian and tiny bits of Spanish because her voice is like fine wine on any day but with the added accent it becomes downright sinful.
It's an endless cycle. When he's near her he misses her, and when he's missing her it's so easy to remember the pain, and the hatred, and the mistrust.
"How on earth am I going to put you on television tonight," she mutters fretfully, as if he were her own to present; to control and place in position.
He hates that he still craves the feeling of being hers. He's already is in a million and one ways and perhaps that's what hurts the most.
"TMI will love it," he grumbles back, trying to distract them both from the closeness.
Their voices are soft, intimate whispers; barely breathes shared between their bodies.
Mackenzie pats her fingers to his forehead where the small bandage is now secure and Will's body tenses at the thought of her leaving. He wants to grip his knees around her hips and hold her to him; press her down into his lap and feel the skin underneath her collarbone and maybe lick into her mouth until she makes that noise that's lingering in the depths of his memory.
He's so damn afraid sometimes that he'll lose all those details.
"Better?" he asks instead – coward, he thinks - and she steps backwards slightly, smiling.
She rubs her thumb down his temple in quick, soothing swipes and with a soft, knowing nod, whispers, "almost."