Author's Note: I first conceived of this story in December of 2012. However, I could never get the pieces of the puzzle to fit like I wanted. In addition, I damaged my spinal cord, and had surgery. But recovery was a long, slow progress. However, I recently re-watched the series, and the puzzle finally began revealing itself. So I started over. It is proving to be a fun distraction. Completely new story.

The Most Tender Part of Love

1. Instrument of Change

Friday, September 30, 2011

Will loved his work when words came easy. On the days they didn't? Well, on those days, he should have listened to his maternal grandfather and gone to medical school like his younger brother.

Today was one of those days. In fact, the past month was a struggle with a few notable exceptions. There was the American Taliban comparison, of course… look where that got him. And his call for the release of the Obama Administration's memorandum authorizing the use of unmanned drone strikes. However, that really belonged to Mac. He was pleased with the 9/11 Tenth Anniversary script. But he would never receive credit for it because he was "benched" and it was delivered by Sloan and Eliot.

That one still hurt. How could it not? He remembered in excruciating detail every one of the 24 hours he spent on air. Like millions of others, he still bore scars from the horrors of that day and the ones that followed. Without conscious thought his mind drifted back five years to his one happy September 11th memory of the past decade (assuming there could be such a thing).

Monday, September 11, 2006

Will was completely drained as he entered his apartment building after the Fifth Anniversary 9/11 broadcast. He had been back in New York City—and back at ACN—for six weeks after spending three years at CNN, first in New York and then in D.C. His new prime-time show, News Night, was coming together, though it felt strange working without MacKenzie. He was so accustomed to having her in his ear.

She was his muse even before they met. He was CNN's White House correspondent at the time while she was producing the six o'clock hour from the DC bureau. He made frequent appearances on that show, reporting from the South Lawn. He avoided meeting her for months because he was afraid that the reality of her could never live up to his vision of her. Finally, his curiosity forced him to seek her out. In an instant, he was speechless, completely blown away that she was, in fact, the woman of his dreams. After that, he made excuse after excuse to see her; and when he took over an evening anchor gig, he insisted that she must be his executive producer.

Of course, Mac being Mac, she found ways to be intimately involved in this new endeavor even though she was still running "their" show in D.C. They spent nearly every weekend together, most often in Washington, and they talked for hours every night. He wished tonight was last night. He wanted her here with him. But, she, too, had unavoidable work responsibilities associated with this particular day.

He walked into the apartment and it took a second before he heard the TV coming from the other room. "MacKenzie," he said aloud as he practically threw his work bag on the sofa. He moved quickly into the kitchen and the sight of her dressed casually in a t-shirt and running pants was breathtaking. She must have sensed his presence because in an instant she turned around and smiled at him.

"You were so good tonight, Will… so good."

"How did you?"

"I cut out a little early and caught the 8 o'clock shuttle. I need you tonight."

"Thank God!" He felt the understanding in her eyes as she moved towards him and said, "I know, Billy… I know."

In her bare feet, she just reached the top part of his chest. He kissed the top of her head as he stroked her back. A sigh of both contentment and relief at her presence exploded from him.

She took him by the hand to the kitchen table where he found half a sandwich, and a large glass of water. "Eat up, and then we're going for a run." She gently pushed him down in his seat.

"A run? Seriously, Mac? It's been a really long day. Can't we just engage in indoor cardio activities?" He groused, before adding, "And I need a drink."

"Later," she insisted. "We have work to do. Marathons don't run themselves."

"I want to re-negotiate that," he replied as he picked up the sandwich.

"No, you don't… because you get to do it with me."

He laughed. Such was her power over him. She was always going to get her way.

Within 15 minutes they were out the door and headed towards the harbor. Though his stride was much longer, he struggled to keep up with her pace. Finally, she let up when they reached Battery Park. They slowed to a walk and when they had caught their breath, she took his hand.

As they walked, she told him about what September 11, 2001, had been like for her. She was twenty-two at the time. She had graduated high school at sixteen and from Cambridge at twenty. She was in London working for the BBC, doing both reporting and producing.

She talked about the disbelief and devastation felt by the British people about the tragedy that was unfolding "across the pond." She talked about the around-the-clock coverage in Britain, the sharp increase in public awareness and fear of terrorism, and the memorial service on September 14th at St. Paul's Cathedral that she attended with her parents. She explained that it was then that she decided it was time to return to the country of her birth. Within six months, she was working for CNN, first in Atlanta and then in D.C. where they met.

They found a bench near the water overlooking Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. She curled up next to him to ward off the evening breeze coming in off the river and surprised him when she said, "I remember watching you in the anchor chair that week. Of course, I didn't know who you were then… even so, I remember."

More astonishing was how through soft and tender persuasion and just the right questions, she got him to talk about that horrific day and the days that followed. He found himself telling her things he had never told a living soul, including about the nightmares that still from time to time kept him awake at all hours. When he finished, he felt such relief in the telling and in the knowledge that she understood. She kissed him and then whispered, "Let's go home, Billy."

They found a cab and rode back to his apartment. After, they undressed each other, showered, and then made love together wholly without words. As they drifted off to sleep, she reminded him, "I love you, William McAvoy." And at that moment Will believed that he could conquer the world.

The buzzing of his phone returned his mind to the present. For 9.8 years he planned for his country's retribution and when, finally, Bin Laden was killed last May, he was ready. He was great that night. Everyone said so. But then—under the influence of a marijuana laced euphoria—he let his heart rule his head and left that ridiculous voicemail for MacKenzie. And now he knew why. His marijuana buzzed brain must have recognized the similarities between that night and the one nearly five years before.

For months that unanswered voicemail tortured him as those all too familiar feelings of bitter betrayal, resentment and confusion played constantly in his brain and rebuilt themselves into what felt like an impenetrable fortress. Now, after all the intervening months and events since May 1, he could only feel relief that his confession had been highjacked. There was simply no way to breach that citadel and scale its walls. That knowledge made him angry. Angry at himself and even more angry at Mac and what she had destroyed with her lying and cheating.

If only he had a couple of those marijuana laced cookies today. The past few days had been difficult. On Monday, he lost it with MacKenzie when, while pestering him for the thousandth time about the voicemail, she came too close to the truth he could not reconcile within himself: that his anger at her was less than his love for her. They had not talked since. Oh, she had been in his ear day and night. However, that was the show and nothing more. He owed her an apology far greater than he gave her. That much he knew. But what did she want from him anyway? Wasn't he doing his part to steer this ship of impossible dreams that Charlie had plotted, and she had built? Would she ever be satisfied?

And over the weekend he would return to Nebraska for his nephew's First Holy Communion. He adored his nieces and nephews; and he loved his siblings. But his twin sisters' easy acceptance of their father was incomprehensible to him. Even his brother, who spent half his time at sea as an active duty Navy surgeon, appeared reconciled to the man. How, after all that happened to them, could they be so blind?

He really wanted one of those cookies. "No," he chided himself as he grabbed a cigarette instead. Those days were behind him. They had to be. Too much was at stake. He couldn't afford to lose control; and he refused to be anything like his father. He also promised Charlie and Mac when he was released from the hospital that he wouldn't self-medicate again. He would take only what he was prescribed and only as directed. Reese was also out to get him—yet one more thing to keep in mind. At least Nina was playing nice, and their "civility" pact was working out amazingly well.

He stared at his computer screen. He gazed out the window. He re-focused back on his computer screen. Over and over until finally he was saved by a knock on his door. "Come in," he called out enthusiastically, welcoming any distraction.

"Sorry to bother you," said Maggie Jordan, as she walked into his office, the hesitation in her voice unmistakable.

He closed his laptop. "It's no problem. What can I do for you? Are you and Gary ready to leave tonight?"

"Yes. But this is different."

"Okay…"

"One of the post-9/11 Anniversary stories I've been researching is the price that journalists have paid in covering the wars in the Middle East and related terrorist attacks, and well…." she paused.

"What does Mac say?"

She shook her head. "I haven't talked to her. I didn't think..."

"I don't understand."

"I remembered something Jim told me and we… I mean me... I mean..."

Will could see his young producer's anxiety level increase by the second and he did not want a panic attack on his hands. MacKenzie would tear him to pieces. Unlike Maggie (and plenty of others), MacKenzie Morgan McHale had never been the slightest bit intimidated by him—not even from the beginning when she was twenty-five and younger than Maggie was now.

But then MacKenzie never seemed her age. She was a born leader with a vision and deep self-confidence he envied even to this day. Was it the circumstances of their childhoods that made it this way? She, the youngest McHale who was born into a wealthy, well-traveled, internationally respected family with doting parents and four older siblings while he, the oldest McAvoy was raised in rural Nebraska by an abusive, alcoholic father and a mother, who though brilliant and strong, took him back time and time again.

"Will?" Maggie interrupted his reverie.

"Sit down," he calmly assured her while gesturing towards the nearest chair, "and tell me what you need."

She meekly sat as she was told. But she refused to look at him. Quietly she said, "I don't really need anything. It's just…."

"Maggie." He waited until she reluctantly made eye contact before continuing. "Unless you are coming to me for dating advice, I'm not going to bite your head off for a private, closed-door conversation," he teased.

She nodded. "There's something you need to see. You won't want to, and you'll be furious at me for giving it to you. But you need to watch it. You need to know…." She stood and without another word handed him a thumb drive.

He looked at the small device in his hand before asking, "What's this about?"

"Mac… It's about Mac," she said.

"MacKenzie?" he questioned aloud. But Maggie hurriedly left the room, shutting the door behind her. Will froze for a moment as that indescribable feeling one gets when expecting bad news washed over him. Intuitively he knew that Maggie was right. He did not want to know what was on the drive. However, in the end, he was powerless to stop himself from inserting it into his computer.

He lit a cigarette, clicked on the only file on the drive and watched intently as it began to play. The video showed a crowd of what appeared to be an Islamic protest. He studied the topography in the scene and guessed that it had to be Pakistan. He had no idea what was being shouted; and while the scene seemed peaceful, there was rabid anger in the eyes of the protesters as the camera moved in closer; and the tension was palpable.

After a few minutes the camera panned right to MacKenzie, who was reporting from the scene. His mouth felt dry as he stared at the image of her. She looked so like she did when they were together. Before May 11, 2007—the day she ripped his heart out—the single worst day of his life. The pain was not as acute as it had once been. How could it be with her so present in his life again? Nonetheless, he still struggled daily with the fallout from that day.

A sharp increase in volume from the video startled him. Chaos had erupted, drowning out Mac's commentary. Suddenly a man approached her and thrust something into her before he turned to face the camera in triumph, an evil smile on his face, hatred in his eyes, and the long blade of a knife, now bloody, clearly visible in his hand. Then he vanished as quickly as he appeared. In abject terror, Will watched her fall to the ground as the screen went black.

He stared at the blank screen in disbelief. The video couldn't be real. Something so heinous could not have happened to her. He would have known. Charlie had said there were bullets flying and that she was mentally and physically exhausted, however, he made no mention of any actual injury to her. It had to be a prank.

Was he being punked? Was Mac getting back at him for bringing Brian Brenner in to write that story, or for yelling at her on Monday and refusing to discuss the voicemail? He berated himself for thinking that of her. He had explained about Brian. In truth, no explanation was necessary. MacKenzie knew him too well. Yet another thing that bugged the hell out of him at times. She cajoled and tested, challenged and teased him with her intellect, wit, and her fiery spirit; and she caressed and tempted him with her eyes and unconsciously with her body. However, such a prank would be cruel; and MacKenzie was not that way. Cruelty was his specialty, not hers.

And yet, he almost wished she could be deliberately cruel. Such a prospect was so much better than the alternative. He checked the date of the file—October 8, 2009—then replayed the video thrice more, hoping to find any sign that it was fabricated. An icy recognition filled his veins as he found none. MacKenzie was stabbed on her thirtieth birthday. Her off-hand response after their first News Night broadcast to his casual question about being "exhausted since she was thirty" now took on an entirely new significance.

She was alive and seemingly healthy not fifty feet away, but that knowledge could not alleviate the sharp pain he felt from seeing her that way. It was as if the knife was stuck in his gut, too. How could this have happened to her? How could he have not known?