A/N: A little riff on events in Season 1.
The harsh drone of a buzzer woke her and she stumbled to the intercom pad in the foyer of her apartment, a nagging voice in the back of her mind reminding her about not having installed the remote phone app her neighbors enthused over.
The buzzer sounded again.
Probably some drunk leaning against the button downstairs.
She fumbled to press the send button, glancing at the clock while she did so.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Mac. Let me up. I've got the greatest idea for the show."
Will?
Even knowing the late hours he often kept, this nocturnal visit seemed out of character. His usual late night modus operandi—when he felt compelled to contact her at all—was a phone call from his terrace, music in the background.
It must be important.
She pressed the button to open the door below, then turned to flip on a lamp. She ran back to the bedroom and grabbed her kimono, more against the chill of the morning than an over-developed sense of modesty, and quickly ran a brush through her hair. She was going to look tousled, no getting around that, given the hour.
When a different buzz came from the front door, she hurried back and cracked it.
Will McAvoy peered back at her.
"Were you sleeping?"
"Will, it's two-twenty in the morning. What else would I be doing?" In spite of her words, though, she opened the door wide and leaned against it, resigned. "You'd better come in before we wake all the neighbors."
"Thanks." He walked through the narrow foyer into the main room, where he suddenly stopped, looked around, and seemed to take stock of the surroundings. "I've never been here before," he said.
"True enough. But I'm still waiting to find out why you're here now."
"I had an idea for the show."
"So you said. Couldn't it have waited until tomorrow—er, later this morning?"
But he seemed oblivious to her words, his eyes roving the room. "Nice place. Kind of small."
"Not everybody can afford a glass and chrome mausoleum in the sky." She closed the door, asking, "How did you get here? Is Lonny—?"
"I didn't want to bother him, so I just walked—"
"You walked fifteen blocks at two in the morning in the city without your bodyguard?"
"I told you, I had this idea—"
"Phones, Will," holding up her mobile. "Instantaneous communication without the messiness of actual movement." She sighed audibly, aware her frustration was lost on him at this moment. "Okay. So, what's the idea?"
"Hmm?"
"You said you had an idea for the show—it was so important it couldn't wait for morning—it was so important you had to come over now to tell me about it. What is it?"
He frowned and thought, then offered a sheepish smile. "I think I forgot." He looked around again, then moved toward the adjoining kitchen. "You got anything to eat, Mac?" he asked, a total non sequitur, as he leaned into the 'fridge.
Her exasperation began to transform into puzzlement. And a little anxiety.
"Will? Will, are you feeling—?"
"Nada. You're still living on air and water alone, I see." He closed the 'fridge door with a heavy whap. "Share a pizza?"
She shook her head at the offer, still perplexed by his behavior.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged, moving towards the door.
"Wait—you're leaving?"
"Pizza," he said again, in a tone that implied no further information was needed. "Change your mind?"
She had begun to be alarmed. "Let me call Lonny so he can—"
"Nope, I've got this." He grinned and left.
oooo
Will didn't show up at work until after eleven the following morning—late by his standards, egregiously late by Mac's, and yet she avoided any remonstrance. She was genuinely concerned and didn't want to spook him by appearing intrusive or overweening. Better to handle this subtly.
And he'd never been clear about the monumental idea he'd claimed to have for the show.
Which he didn't reveal at the two o'clock rundown meeting, either. He just sat there, obstinately quiet and rubbing at his temples.
Probably hungover, she snorted to herself.
"So, for the panel, we've got Dr. Frederick Loren of Yale Law School—Leslie Hammerly from the Wall Street Journal's legal blog—Richard DeGuerin—"
"Who?" It was the first time Will had spoken.
Jim consulted his notepad then repeated, "Dick DeGuerin, the famous crim—"
"I know who he is," Will managed, obviously annoyed. "I just don't know why we need to have him on our show."
"Legal opinion on B block. The Amanda Knox case."
"Judge Judy wasn't available? Why not have the defense team from the O.J. Simpson case? Jesus. DeGuerin." He looked to Mac. "Why do we—"
"Will, you know quite well that in order to have a balanced panel, we have to have someone with the Defense's point of view and—"
"I'll handle it myself." He turned to Jim. "Strike DeGuerin," he said, rising.
"Will—" she attempted but he'd already stormed from the conference room.
An hour later, after disengaging from the staff, she finally cornered the elusive anchor in his office, where he sat, feet up, head back, eyes shut, with a diet soda in hand, a bottle of aspirin on the desk.
"Headache?"
He nodded, eyes still closed. "And I'd really appreciate a little quiet right now."
Ah ha. That seemed to confirm her suspicion. He had been wasted the night before.
"Rough night?"
"Not me." He opened an eye. "Spent it reading." Then, for added measure, "Alone."
"Okay." Unconvinced but unwilling to argue over it, she shifted topic. "So, anyway—what was your brilliant idea this morning? You never said."
He sat upright. "High profile doesn't equate professionalism or competency." He sighed. "Look, DeGuerin's a showman, and I don't want him on the show. I don't want to give him the fifteen minutes of fame or the implicit professional validation. I'm the managing editor—I get to make that call. We are not going to turn a legitimate legal debate into a circus. I'll leave that to Nancy Grace, thank you very much."
"I understand—but that's not what I was referring—"
"Can you—can you just leave me alone for a bit?" He winced, his fingers massaging the vertical line between his eyes. "I'd like to relax a little—perhaps catch a few winks—before the show tonight."
oooo
That show went by the numbers despite the late change to the slate of guest panelists, and the next two days were unremarkable, so Mac chalked the episode up as a one-off event that wouldn't be repeated. She forgot about it.
And, then, at 3:47am Thursday morning, the door buzzer made its unnaturally shrill noise, dragging her from the bed.
"Hey, Mac, it's me."
This time, when he loped up the stairs, she stood waiting at the door, arms folded.
"Let me guess. You remembered the earth-shaking idea that you forgot?"
"No, but I was thinking that we should do an expose of Americans for Prosperity. You know that's backed by the Koch brothers, right?"
"I do," she hurried to affirm, bringing him over the threshold so that she could close the door.
"There's a pattern here that no one else is talking about. The Koch brothers are co-opting the whole damn Republican party, first with their influence at the Supreme Court, then with the Citizens United decision, and now with—"
"Wait—wait. You seriously came here at this hour of the morning to discuss the Koch brothers?"
He looked all around, then seemed to deflate a bit. "You're trying to say—this is a bad time? You—have company?"
"I'm not—and I don't—haven't in a –" She took a calming breath. "It's just that I'm—concerned—about you taking these early morning walks—it may not be safe—"
"No one's gonna mess with me. I have the confidence of a tall man and—"
"Charlie and someone at Blue North thought there was enough of a threat that they assigned you a bodyguard."
"Ask a barber if you need a haircut and what's he gonna tell you?" he shrugged, taking a chair and punching at a pillow. "Ask a security guy if you need security, and whaddya think he's gonna say?"
"But Charlie was worried—I mean, those threats on Neal's—"
"Charlie gets spooked too easily by Neal's little imaginary bogeymen."
She sat down across from him. "Are you okay, Will? I mean, this is the second time this week you've—"
He made a dismissive gesture of annoyance. "I'm fine. Had a little trouble sleeping but I think that's just—" he pointed to his head, "so many thoughts for the show. We're clicking on all cylinders, Mac, and I want to keep the momentum going."
"How much trouble sleeping?"
"I go to bed around midnight, the usual time. Just haven't been able to—you know, fall asleep."
"Is this the first time that's happened?" His expression answered that. "The second time? Will, how long has this been going on?"
"A couple of weeks? I was a little worried at first, but I've been so keyed up about the direction we're taking the show—"
"You need to get your rest, Will. It'll show here—" she pointed to his face, "if you don't." A yawn overtook her. "And I need to get my rest, too—so unless there's something time sensitive in your head full of ideas about the Koch brothers—"
oooo
After hours of early morning contemplation, over many cups of coffee, MacKenzie finally decided against asking Charlie Skinner's help or advice. Any such action was too fraught with workplace implications. Not to mention exceedingly high potential for Will's resentment.
Ditto, really, for consulting anyone else with whom she and Will worked—so, Jim and Sloan and Don were similarly out of the equation.
That only left—
"Is this Lonny Church—"
"Who is this?"
"MacKenzie McHale. At ACN. We've met. I work with—"
"The asshole." He coughed theatrically.
"I work with Will McAvoy," she said, in measured tones, trying to make the point that she did not consider Will to be an asshole. "What I wanted to talk to you about is—well, he's been—uh, leaving his apartment late at night."
"He's not supposed to do that. Security protocols. When he's in, he's in—unless he calls me."
"Did he call you last night?"
"No." A grudging admission.
"He knocked at my door this morning at 3:30. He'd walked there."
"Where do you live?"
"Mid-town. Forty-first and Seventh."
"Sweet Jesus. That must be one bright horizon at night."
"It is," she acknowledged, as an aside, "but, getting back to Will—this wasn't the first time."
"So, why are you ratting him out? What do you want me to do about it? If I can't count on his cooperation, how can I—"
"Can't you—I don't know—keep a closer eye on him or something? Now that we know he's prone to taking these little excursions? There are still threats against him and when he's out alone—"
"First off, there's a little matter of confidentiality. I have to put the best interests of my client foremost. He has to be able to rely on my discretion. You're nowhere in my chain of command, so I shouldn't even discuss this with you." Protracted pause. "But if you're suggesting surveillance or some sort of monitoring to make sure he stays where I put him—well, that needs to go through channels and all of those are at least two paygrades above you and me. I can't do 24-7 by myself, and I certainly can't do it based on a call from—"
He obviously sought the correct word, before settling on the first euphemism to come to mind. "A co-worker."
"Perhaps a bit more than that," she suggested, helpfully.
"Okay, More-Than-a-Co-Worker—thanks for the tip. I'll take it from here. You can just relax."
oooo
Mac's relaxation was short-lived, undermined by the lead-up to Friday night's broadcast, which was far more chaotic than usual. Jim's gaggle of young associate producers had been remarkably unfocused at the rundown meeting and Mac found herself intervening to give specific directions. Then, perhaps inspired by the entire crew of Right Now, which had summarily taken a week's hiatus, Herb and Jake had scheduled their own time off, forcing Mac to scramble to find union technicians to staff Control on short notice. Every package seemed too long and cutting them all seemed to require Mac's involvement or okay.
So, by 9:03pm, when the last show of the week was in the can, Mac gratefully slipped off the headset, gathered her folders, and walked to the bullpen, intending to wish everyone a restful weekend.
A young brunette waited awkwardly at the far cluster of desks, checking her phone.
"Hannah Starr. Waiting for Will," Gary mouthed to Mac, replete with a meaningful nod and raised eyebrows.
Of course. A little Friday night revelry to celebrate the end of the week and put all that insomnia to good use.
Chagrinned, Mac nonetheless tried to put it out of her mind as she gave post-production notes to Jim and Kendra.
Will was entitled to a life, certainly. He was free to date. Just because she opted to live a cloistered life and subordinate her personal life to the professional one—well, Will could do as he pleased.
And it evidently pleased him to date women half his age.
The conclusion seemed logical and superficially convincing, so she tried to be convinced.
Until the entry buzzer of her apartment sounded at zero-dark-thirty.
She made no response, just punched the button and waited, rehearsing her indignation. But when he stood in the doorway, a paper sack in one hand and his hair damp and the shoulders of his jacket wet from an early morning spring rain, her anger evaporated. There might be actual cause for concern.
Unwilling to give away all her irritation, she tossed a towel at him and allowed, "If this is going to be a regular thing, perhaps I should just give you a key. At least, I'll get some sleep that way."
Without waiting for him to finish blotting the water from his face and respond, she turned to the kitchen. "Coffee or tea?"
"Haven't you anything stronger?" He dropped the towel on a chair and followed behind her.
"I don't think you need anything stronger."
"I'm stone cold sober," he volunteered.
She scrutinized him. "You are." It was impossible to conceal the surprise in her voice. Then, turning to fill the coffee maker with water and grounds, she asked, as nonchalantly as she could muster, "What brings you to my neighborhood tonight? Another earth-shaking idea?"
He held up the paper sack. "Brought you doughnuts."
"Doughnuts," she repeated, waiting for a punchline. When one wasn't forthcoming, she added, "That isn't a very good explanation, you know."
"But they're good doughnuts, Mac. Fresh."
Was he putting her on? She studied him for some hint of a joke.
Placing two mugs on the table, she took a chair. "I thought you had a date last night."
"A date—"
"Or perhaps you call it something else?"
"Hannah?"
"Uh huh."
"She's really smart. Not as smart as you, though."
"Be that as it may—"
"She's twenty-six."
"That makes me feel better," she said sourly, rising to get the coffee. "In any event, I thought your dates customarily lasted the full night." That was tossed off with a insouciance that masked what she really felt. She really wanted him to deny it. Convincingly.
"C'mon, Mac." He tore open the paper bag to expose two pastries. "Chocolate, with sprinkles."
That had always been a favorite.
She weakened and he noticed, nudging the bag nearer. "Have one."
She succumbed, pulling off a long strip of the dough. "Mmm." She used a thumb to catch the fallen sprinkles and bring them to her mouth as well. "It's just that—well—I don't understand what this is all about, Will. I mean—this is the third time this week that you've—"
"Just getting caught up. No harm in that, is there?"
He looked so incredibly pleased as he chewed, that she couldn't help but wonder if doughnuts might boost dopamine levels.
"I mean, when we're at work, all we ever get to talk about is—"
"Work?"
"Yeah, exactly." No evidence he caught the ironic tone in her voice. "And I thought, well, I have some time now—"
In spite of the chocolate-iced doughnuts with sprinkles, Mac felt obliged to be the adult in this conversation. To steer him back to responsibilities and real-world realities.
"Will, you can't just take off in the middle of the night. Threats have been made against your safety, and you have an obligation to let your security personnel do their jobs. Imagine how Charlie or Mrs. Lansing would react if—"
He was staring at her oddly. It made her self-conscious and, to break the spell, she poured two coffees and gathered spoons, creamer, and sugar.
"You take yours black now. You never used to."
"It was hard to find milk where I was, so it became easier not to have to look for it." She shrugged. "I've gotten used to it since."
Quite unexpectedly, and without any preamble, he leaned over the table and kissed her.
She pulled back. "I—" The vowel hung in her throat as she struggled with what she ought to say. Obviously, she needed to protest, but mainly she wanted to know why. "Will? What's going on?"
"Just wanted to." He looked inordinately pleased with himself.
"Aren't you—I don't understand—" her voice faded as another idea suddenly crowded into her head. "You—you and your date du jour—Hannah—was there some argument last night? Is that why—"
"Nope. No argument. We get along great."
"Then, I don't understand—" she repeated, possibilities still swirling in her mind as she rushed to consider and discard each.
"It's okay. I don't love her."
There it was. A guileless admission, offered apropos of nothing.
He picked up his coffee.
"That doesn't make it okay, Will. As a matter of fact—that makes it worse."
"Mac, you're over-reacting. There's no problem. She doesn't know I was coming here. She's asleep."
Now Mac lurched to her feet and backed away from the table, the obvious conclusion flashing in brilliant neon lights in her head. Hannah was asleep in Will's apartment, in Will's bed, right now.
"You need to leave, Will."
"Aw, Mac. She was just tonight, you know, and she's never going to—"
"Now." Resolute, she even gestured to the door for added emphasis.
He took a final sip of coffee and stood. "Get some rest, Mac, and we'll talk about this in the morning, when you're not so—"
oooo
Unable to go back to sleep, MacKenzie was at her desk a few hours later, plowing through newsprint and caffeinated beverages, and wondering the best way to handle this.
If his behavior a few hours ago was some new element of torture from Will, she had to convince him to stop. It was inhuman to torment her in this manner, knowing (as he surely did) how she still felt about him. No one could expect her to countenance such sadism.
Also, it needed to be said that Will wasn't fairly treating Hannah, either. Someone needed to say that. Mac wasn't inclined to be the one, however.
One thing was clear: Will's nighttime visits had crossed the line from nuisance to crisis.
She was gathering her thoughts for the confrontation when Millie called on Charlie's behalf, asking if she could break away for a few minutes. The interruption was providential, since it now seemed apparent that Charlie needed to know about his roving anchorman, regardless of any potential impact to Will's pride.
Charlie waved her into his office and she saw Lonny Church's gigantic frame folded into one of the uncomfortable chrome chairs facing Charlie's desk.
"Since you instigated this little investigation, I thought it would be fitting if you were present for the dénouement."
"Instigated?" she echoed, a little defensively, since it sounded an awful lot like an indictment.
"Well, let's say—brought it to management's attention," Charlie offered with the small smile of a peacemaker. "After you said something to Lonny, he confirmed Will's been flying the coop at night. Turns out the doorman of that swanky tower keeps astonishingly complete records of the comings and goings of residents."
"Eddie—that's the night doorman—gave me a call this morning when McAvoy left," Lonny explained. "I got to your place only a few minutes before he did."
"You were parked on the curb outside my flat?"
"More like, double parked down the block—but, yeah."
"Why didn't you stop him?"
Lonny's tone turned lecturing. "I observe—I advise—I provide security. I don't interfere with my subject's activities, when it can be helped, unless there's some element of danger."
"He's under threat and yet he's walking around in the open—that sounds dangerous to me."
"As I say, I was watching." He looked to Charlie for bailing out.
Charlie obliged.
"Turns out, Will been having a reaction to some prescribed sleep medication—"
He'd even said as much, hadn't he? "Just haven't been able to—you know, fall asleep."
"The need for sleep is primal," Charlie droned on. "In fact, sleep deprivation is still the easiest and most effective means of torture. Anyway, somnambulism—sleep-walking—is one of the possible side effects of the drug he's been taking."
"You're saying he's asleep when he goes out for these early morning walks? But he was perfectly lucid—"
"Look, I talked to his doctor this morning, and he told me there's two things about this sleep aid he prescribed for Will. First, it can cause a sort of dream state, where the person taking the drug is only partially awake, so he is subject to acting on impulses. Then, there's this thing called ante-rograde amnesia," Charlie enunciated it carefully, "that prevents the brain from registering the events that happen in this dream state as they happen. So, Will takes these walks and doesn't remember them the next day, because his brain isn't recording them."
"Why did the doctor tell you all this?" It seemed like terribly invasive information.
"Turns out, owing to Will's unique position as flagship anchor, we're allowed to ask about medications when required for reasons of performance and safety."
Mac's thoughts had already jumped to the end, however. "So, how do we get him off the drug?"
"Done." Charlie's hands spread in a gesture of fait accompli. "His doctor's going to call him this morning, tell him AWM insists on a different medication for contractual reasons."
"Are we going to tell him about—you know—" Meaning, the sleep-walks, the sleep-visits—
—Or even the sleep kiss?
oooo
As before, Will didn't make an appearance in the newsroom until nearly noon. So, after dispatching Jim and Maggie and Gary and every other staffer with urgent to-do lists, Mac finally strode into Will's office, expectantly.
This would be a peculiar showdown. If what Charlie and Lonny had told her this morning was correct, he wasn't aware of his recent behaviors and so couldn't explain or be apologetic for them.
He raised his eyes as she positioned herself defiantly in front of his desk.
"Something bad just happen?"
She shook her head.
He leaned back. "So, it's charades, then. How many syllables?"
"Just wondering if you got any sleep last night?"
Apart from the arch overtone, she simply wanted him to level about what he remembered. Or didn't.
He paused a moment, during which she was certain he would resort to deflection or further sarcasm, and then admitted, "No—nothing restful, anyway. Talked to the doctor this morning and we're going to try a new prescription. No more daytime drowsiness or headaches. No more—dreams."
He opened a desk drawer and took out a package of cigarettes, shaking one out. "You were in my dream last night, as a matter of fact."
"Really?" She tried to keep an expression of mild curiosity. "Nightmare about work?"
"Knock off the phony self-deprecation, Mac." Pause. "I don't think it was about work."
"But you don't remember what it was?"
"Uh uh." He lit the cigarette and exhaled a long trail of smoke. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"