Begins in but diverges from episode 1x9. In this AU, Nina and Will are dating.
Nina was a consolation prize. She knew it and he knew it, but maybe it didn't matter. Maybe good sex and an intimacy that didn't exist beyond the bedroom was enough. Who cared if Will was only with her by default? She was the one he went home with most nights.
She wasn't an idiot – she knew he loved MacKenzie, was probably still in love with her, no matter how much he denied it. She heard it in the voicemail she'd deleted (not that Will knew about that). She saw it whenever she went to pick him up after the show, when he'd glance down at his shoes to avoid seeing the hurt in MacKenzie's eyes - the kind that couldn't be concealed behind her too-wide smile. Then MacKenzie took to having her dates meet her in the bullpen, and Will's lips would tighten into a thin line and he'd stand there, blinking, looking like he was about to cry. What Nina didn't know was that Will cared about Nina, maybe more than he'd cared for any woman since MacKenzie. Not in the same way, of course – it could never be the same.
Professionally, MacKenzie was the best EP he'd ever had. He loved her relentless idealism and absolute certitude when it came to choosing stories for their newscast. He loved the way she wasn't afraid to stand up to him and that she didn't hesitate to get right in his personal space to prove her point. He loved the fact that she was so damned smart, the only EP he'd ever trusted to write or edit his scripts. The only thing he didn't love was his undiminished attraction to her, so strong even now that all it took to banish Nina completely from his thoughts was a glimpse of Mac's lopsided grin.
He'd look at her and she would smile, her eyes crinkling in that adorable way that made his heart leap. She tried to hide the love in her eyes and she was better at it than she knew because he had no idea how she felt about him – not really. He assumed (especially after she didn't return his voicemail) that he was the only one who felt that current of electricity when they locked eyes, the only one who was transported back to a time when she would have cemented their greeting with a kiss. In those days she'd try to keep it professional but eventually he'd put his hand on her hip and draw her near, gazing at her with such intensity she couldn't help melting into him. They'd stay that way until the noise from the bullpen gradually invaded their senses and she would pull back, smiling up at him.
These days he'd catch himself staring at her lips – they were so red and soft and so fucking sweet (he remembered that much). And the way she used to lean into him - so soft, so pliable – not at all the way she was in the control room. No, in bed she'd often let him take the lead. She told him once that nothing made her feel more fulfilled than having him inside her, of feeling every one of his 180 pounds pressing her down into the mattress (or against the wall, or into the coffee table) as he rained kisses down her neck and brought her to a massive, quivering crescendo that left her an incoherent mess. More than once in the recent past he'd had to jab himself with a paper clip to keep those thoughts from taking over.
Why the fuck did she have to ruin it? They'd probably be married by now, maybe even have a couple of kids. She'd been in love with him once – she'd told him that the first week she'd been back. If she hadn't fucked things up, and he'd never given her the chance to fall out of it he'd be able to take her home and act on the desire that flooded his body every time he heard her voice in his ear. He tried not to allow his conscious mind to go there but goddamn it if his body didn't know what she did to him.
Despite his physical attraction, he'd managed to convince himself he was not in love with her; that ship had sailed and good riddance to it because he didn't need that shit. He was over it, goddammit but he couldn't deny the fact that the whole sordid, fucked up debacle still enraged him. She'd betrayed him and he could. not. forgive her. It simply wasn't within his power. He knew he ought to, that they'd both feel better for it, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He wouldn't be that guy – the one who would put up with any amount of shit just because he didn't want to be alone. His mother had done that, and look what that got her: a mouth full of broken teeth and more concussions than a football player. He would not be that guy. Forgiving MacKenzie would be to condone what she'd done. More than that, it would be a betrayal of his deepest self. Intellectually he knew she regretted it, that she would do anything to take it back, but she couldn't, and that put him in an impossible position. He hated her for it - for backing him into a corner, for leaving him no choice but to reject her.
Of course somewhere deep inside he knew he loved her as much – even more - than he hated her, but his conscious mind guarded that secret like gold doubloons. It was only when the lights were out that all was revealed: no matter how many cups of warm milk he drank before bed, no matter how many extra-strength melatonin capsules he choked on, no matter how many evenings he wore himself out with Nina, he couldn't stop dreaming about MacKenzie. In one recurring nightmare he found himself in a war zone, running up and down dirt-covered streets searching for her, all the while screaming her name. Her fellow reporters knew where she was but no one would tell him, no matter how many times he begged or pleaded. Then somehow her location would be revealed and the dream would end when he started pounding on a plywood-covered door (or an iron gate covering dusty windows or some other impenetrable barrier) until his knuckles bled, crying out for her. He knew she was in there, listening, and he thought that if he could just have one minute to look into her eyes he could make her see how much he needed her. He'd awaken with MacKenzie's name on his lips, even as Nina lay snuggled against him. He tried not to think about what that might mean.
OK, so maybe there was some kind of weird disconnect between his conscious mind and his subconscious, but fuck it - he was not the forgiving type. He would not be.
He usually managed to keep a lid on it throughout the day but the anger would build and at some point, usually when he was tired, he would have to let it out. Kissing her senseless would have done the trick, but he couldn't do that. Instead, he would make some sarcastic rejoinder to an innocuous question, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she had not been forgiven. The staff would look uncomfortable, her eyes would flash in anger, and then she would gulp and he would watch, fascinated, as she took the hurt upon herself like a mantle, a fucking hair shirt - as if she deserved the bullshit he couldn't stop heaping on her. He often wished she would just tell him to fuck off, to stop being such a prick - but she never did. They'd be careful with one another the rest of the evening, eventually saying a tense goodbye, with the unspoken agreement that they would try again tomorrow. Then he'd meet up with Nina and go through the motions, pretending that 'good enough' actually was.
Brian's presence added a whole new dimension to their dysfunction. Yes, it served its purpose but it didn't take long for Will to discover (again) that hurting MacKenzie meant hurting himself too. How could he reconcile the decent – yes, noble man he'd always thought himself to be with the petty, vindictive asshole who hurt her just because he could? He hated seeing Brian stand just a little bit closer to MacKenzie than could be considered professional, the way he'd brush against her under the guise of showing her something in his notebook. Will didn't think MacKenzie was interested in that asshole (and he'd definitely been looking for signs) but then again, he couldn't read her like he used to. She'd grown wary of him in the years they'd been apart, worried about upsetting the delicate peace between them that had to be re-forged every day.
Then something happened that showed Will how wrong he'd been. It wasn't enough – this game he and Nina were playing. It did matter and Nina too discovered she'd been a fool – a grade A, fucking moron. Here was a man who was desperately in love but it wasn't with her, even if she was the one he was going to go home with. Scratch that. She was never going to go home with him again - her pride wouldn't allow it. But she stayed, if only because Will was letting her hold his hand. It hung limply, but at least he didn't try to wrench it away.
They were all there - the News Night staff plus Charlie, Elliot, Don and Jack (the political panelist MacKenzie had been seeing) - huddled in a hospital waiting room, devastated into silence. Even MacKenzie's stupid ex-boyfriend was there, the one destined to be the joke of the newsroom: She cheated on Will with him? Occasionally Nina would catch Brian looking at Will, sizing him up, trying to work out the enigma that was Will. Truth be told, Will had surprised Brian. Somehow he'd assumed they were on the same team but he'd been wrong to think Will's feelings for MacKenzie ended at fury. That night, the manhole cover Will welded shut four years ago exploded and his feelings were on display for all to see. He'd mostly been silent since they'd arrived at the hospital, but every now and then Brian would observe him angrily brushing a tear from his cheek, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, rocking slightly back and forth, lips moving in silent prayer.