Author's Notes: A huge thank you to all who reviewed my last fic. Your kind words mean the world. Teanc09, I am indebted to you for a certain pic you sent to me that inspired this one. Writingalone, the coolest legal brain on the planet, who spent portions of her work day re-reading various versions of this…you rock. Yup, your federal tax dollars at work folks.
Honey, you really tempt me
You know the way you look so kind
I'd love to stick around
But I'm running behind
~Running On Empty, Jackson Browne
Mackenzie has any number of unusual, peculiarly phrased running tee shirts, and he finds that, though he enjoys watching her shimmy into her compression leggings (a term he'd never even heard of until they got engaged and moved in together) and running shoes, he's beginning to wonder if he should worry about her compulsive need to run at least three miles a day.
Today's tee shirt is emblazoned with the phrase Marines Do It With Force, and he pulls a pillow over his head and tries really hard not to think about who gave her that one.
"It's five in the morning, Mac. Five in the morning on a Saturday" he enunciates clearly, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, she's made a mistake and forgotten they don't have to go to work today.
"That's why you should be sleeping my love" she whispers, running a hand through his hair, before leaning down to kiss him and snatch her sneakers off the floor.
"You know, it wasn't so long ago that I reminded you that you looked like something grown in a dark, damp place and…"
"Thank you for that, by the way. Just what every girl wants to hear right before she's proposed to" she interrupts.
"You're welcome, but my point is…Jesus Mac! Take a fucking day off, will you?!" he half croaks, half shouts. He's barely awake, and making your living talking means you perpetually wake up with temporary laryngitis.
"I can't. You know that I can't, Will" she whispers, sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up her shoes, and refusing to meet his eyes. He stops the motion of her hands, laying his larger ones over hers.
"Maybe it's time to find a different solution?" he pleads, waggling his eyebrows a bit, hoping to add some levity to the situation. An attempt to counteract its seriousness.
"I'll think about it, ok?" she promises, but quickly shakes off his hands (anxiety already pulsing through her veins at the thought of sitting still) and makes a run for it, pun intended.
He flops back down onto his pillows and listens for the now familiar sounds of Mackenzie's morning routine. He can hear her filling up her reusable water bottle, and clipping her keys onto an old CNN lanyard she throws around her neck, before she's out the door. He slowly rises out of bed and pads out to the coffee maker because fuck, he never used to be up before nine on a weekend, and now all he can do is file through old emails and try to figure out how to help her.
I miss you Will. I know you don't want to hear that, but I do. I hate mornings now, and I know what you're thinking…Mackenzie, you've always hated mornings. But, sometimes I wake up and think this has all just been a really awful nightmare, and that I'm going to roll over and find you snoring next to me. Instead, I'm woken up by live ammunition training, and shit, that is just the worst fucking way in the world to wake up, Billy.
His eyes are suspiciously moist, and he blames the early hour and smoke from his first cigarette of the morning (his only cigarette of the day, if Mac has anything to say about it, and she usually does). He pulls in a lungful of smoke, coughing slightly, and looks through an entire C drive filled with Mackenzie's correspondence. He'd lied to her. Of course he'd read her emails. Not immediately, because…well, at first it was all too raw. But as time had worn on, and he'd missed her presence in his life more than he'd ever missed anything or anyone, he'd given in and read them…he just never responded.
I was wrong, Billy. Live ammunition training is not the worst way to wake up. Sheltering in place, underneath a Humvee, because your base camp has been attacked by Taliban soldiers, is a far worse way to wake up. Jim heard it first. I've told you about Jim, haven't I Billy? He's the associate producer I poached from CNN Atlanta. He's green, but he's eager (maybe just eager to please me…I think he has a little crush) and he quite possibly saved my life this morning. I was sleeping with my earphones on, podcasts of NewsNight ringing in my ears, when Jim pulled me out of my cot and threw me out of our tent. He got shot in the ass for his efforts. (I'm trying not to laugh as a medic sews him up. And then I'm trying not to cry, because shit it could have been so much worse…)
Will fights the urge to pick up his cell phone and call Jim and thank him a million ways to Sunday for getting his Mackenzie back to him, but he figures the kid might want to kill him if he calls at five am on a weekend.
I don't like being in front of the camera, Billy. We're in Pakistan now, and we're down a producer and some on-air talent, and I fucking hate being on camera. Do you think I have a God complex, Billy? Because that's what Jim said today. That my compulsive need to control the story and shape the way the American public views a topic suggests a serious God complex. I'm starting to think that's what happened with Brian. He'd had so much control over me, for so long, that when I had the chance to watch him come crawling back to me and beg…I took it. I've never controlled you, Will, have I? Well, I mean other than when you're on the air. Because, it's my job then, Will. It's my job. It's the thing I'm best at. When I can't control anything else, I can control that.
Control. Sometimes he thinks that's what this whole running thing is about. If she were to actually confront her anxiety head on, without the shield of running shoes, and running away from him, and then running toward him, she might just lose control. For just a second, the mask of vivacious, talented, professional Mackenzie McHale might falter. What he can't figure out is why the fuck that scares her so much?
She loses control in the bedroom all the time, closing her eyes and letting sensation roll over her and through her with an abandon he'd missed. And she'd spent less than thirty seconds thinking about her answer to his marriage proposal, jumping in with both feet, willing to hitch herself to him for a lifetime.
Two hours later he can hear the sounds of her keys jiggling in the lock and her ragged breathing as she enters their front door and drops to the floor in a boneless heap.
"Good run?" he asks with a grin, because the result looks anything but pleasant to him. She actually appears to be in pain, hunched over, reaching for her toes in an awkward stretch on the ceramic tile.
"Fuck off" she mutters, grabbing her side and wincing as she tries to catch her breath.
"As I recall, I'm the one who suggested you take a morning off."
"Pfft…" is her less than elegant response, as she shucks off her shoes and heads for the shower, stripping off clothing as she goes.
The next morning begins much the same. Today's tee shirt reads I Run to Burn off the Crazy. Sending me subliminal messages, are we Mac?
"Jim gave it to me" she answers his unasked question about the origin of said tee shirt.
"Did I say anything?" he asks, burrowing his head under a pillow until she turns off the bathroom light.
"See you in a few hours Billy" she tosses over her shoulder, and the routine begins again.
I can't sleep anymore, Will. Not at all. When I try, all I see are images of dead soldiers, and dead children, and you, screaming at me to get out of your apartment. I go running at three a.m. with a platoon of marines. I usually outrun them. What do you think that means, Billy? Are the Marines seriously slacking on the physical fitness requirements for new recruits, or am I just seriously addicted to adrenaline fueled runs through the desert that finally, mercifully, allow me to fall into an exhausted sleep in the back of a Humvee, drooling on Jim's shoulder as we make our way across the plains of Afghanistan? How are you sleeping Will?
If he'd answered her back then, the reply would have been something like 'how the fuck do you think I'm sleeping?! The love of my life ripped my heart out and stomped on it with her Manolo Blahniks and doesn't seem to give a fuck!' Now he knows better. Now he knows that the hurt she caused him, and the hurt he caused her when she came back, and the memories of two years of war coverage have left her seriously wounded.
I'm coming back, Will. CNN terminated my contract. Oh well, no matter, I'm bringing home another Peabody, an ugly scar, and a rag-tag group of enthusiastic young journalists who seem rather devoted to me and the idea that I can get them jobs in journalism that will actually mean something. I want to do the news again, Billy. The honest to God, change the way people think and vote, kind of news. Do you still want to do that, Will? Do you think we could do it together?
This, of course, was the email that prompted him to panic at the thought that Mackenzie might actually have been in that audience at Northwestern. He'd read this one the night before the panel, and all he can think now is, vertigo medicine, my ass.
As he is sipping his second cup of coffee, she trudges in, makes a bee line for their bed, and flops, rather unceremoniously, onto it.
"Good morning to you too" he snickers, kissing her neck, the only portion of her he can easily reach at the moment. She's wearing leggings, a long sleeved thermal undershirt of his, a tee shirt and a ridiculous looking knit cap with a scraggly ball of string on the top. Her face is buried in a pile of pillows, so he can't quite make out her grumbling response.
"What was that?" he asks, pulling off the cap and turning her face toward him with the tip of his index finger.
"Food" she pleads. "Feed me, Billy."
At least she lets him do this for her. In the weeks since their engagement, his desire to coddle and protect her has had to be reined in so as not to upset the delicate new relationship they're building. Prior to election night, she'd slept only when absolutely necessary, ran and worked to the point of exhaustion, and subsisted mainly on coffee and the occasional protein bar, snatched from Don's office.
She sleeps more now. Takes a rare day off, here and there. And, most importantly, lets him feed her endless plates of pasta (carb loading being a very important thing for long distance runners, apparently), and full English breakfasts.
"Eggs, bacon, waffles, toast..?" he lists her options.
"Yes. All of the above, please."
He watches her down two plates, and three cups of coffee with amusement.
"What?" she asks, looking up into his grinning face.
"Nothing. I just enjoy watching you eat" he admits.
"Wanna help me work it off?" she giggles, eyebrows raised and eyes twinkling.
"I thought you'd never ask" he replies, dragging her down the hall and into the shower.
He lets what he has come to refer to as 'the marathon martyrdom of Mackenzie McHale' continue through the work week, and patiently waits for Saturday morning to arrive.
He wakes just before five, and studiously watches for any sign of movement. The moment she rolls away from him, and begins to inch toward the edge of the mattress, he pounces.
"No you don't" he whispers in her ear, wrapping his arms around her waist and preventing her departure.
"Will, go back to sleep. I'll be back soon" she says quietly, and begins to move. He continues to hold her in place.
"You're not going anywhere." He knows with absolute certainty that he is starting to freak her the fuck out. Can feel the short intake of breath and the suddenly rapid beating of her heart. Still, she persists in playfully batting his hands away, refusing to let him see how much this is affecting her.
"Billy, I promise, I'll be back soon and I will wake you in the best way possible" she soothes, still trying to wrench his hands from her.
"No, Mac. Not this time. I'm not letting you run away again." Wait for it, he thinks to himself. Wait for the inevitable explosion.
"What the hell are you talking about Will?!" she screeches, and he wisely pulls away from her slightly, and just barely manages to avoid getting cracked in the chin by her head whipping around.
"Shush…stop arguing and just listen to me for a minute, Kenz" he coos into her ear, and waits until she doesn't seem ready to jump out of her skin to try to get away from him. Once she had stilled, he continues.
"It's not your fault, Mackenzie. None of it is your fault. Not Genoa, not Maggie, not the FBI raiding the newsroom, or Neal going on the lam. None of these things are your fault. The weight of the world does not rest upon your shoulders."
"I know that Will" she bites out through clenched teeth. He brings his hand up to cup her jaw and force her to release some tension from it.
"And the fact that it took us five years to get here is not your fault Mac" he says firmly, because he is disappointed in himself for not realizing sooner that, while he had proposed to her, and made a home with her, he had never once told her that responsibility for the entire complicated history of their relationship did not lay solely at her feet.
"We could have been here so much sooner if I had just gotten my head out of my ass like Charlie told me to." She laughs, but all too soon, her laughter turns to tears.
"I'm so sorry, Billy. I'm just so sorry" she gasps out between the sobs that begin to wrack her body. He feels like a complete shit for not understanding that Mac needed more than a ring, more than a promise. She needed his forgiveness. And Habib had been right, he couldn't force it, he couldn't make it happen on cue or according to some internal timetable that he had set in his mind. It didn't happen the moment she agreed to become his wife. It didn't happen when he took her home that night and made love to her. It happened when he finally understood the toll her penance had taken on her. She'd literally been running around the world, carrying her guilt like an albatross. And he'd let her.
"I know you are, Mackenzie. I know you are. And I am so sorry that you've carried all of this alone."
They sat in bed for hours that morning, soothing each other's wounds and giving voice to all the fears and worries that, deep down, he knew could not be fixed by simply putting a rock on her finger and signing their names to a mortgage. He knew it would still take her time to heal, but it was a start…a new beginning.
And on bad days, when her anxiety still got the better of her and she had to get outside and outrun the panic, he joined her. They walked through the park, and their new neighborhood, and sat down at an outdoor café and shared a coffee when she could finally bear to stop her exhausting movement.
"I just need to run a bit more. I'll be home soon, I promise" she whispers, as she reaches up on tip toes and kisses him. It's getting better. A short jog around the block, a quick walk on her own to clear her head. She'll be back soon. He watches her disappear around the corner and smiles at the tee shirt she now wears (a recent gift from him). An ACN logo fills the front and a personalized statement on the back reads…
I executive produce Will McAvoy. I can do anything.