As she swims her way lazily back to consciousness, the first thing that Mackenzie senses is that the world is wonderfully and deliciously warm.
There is sunlight kissing her shoulders, streaming in through the open window, and she purrs with satisfaction, nuzzling her face a little deeper into the warmth against her front. It feels like her hands and face and entire body are curled around the biggest hot water bottle in the world.
That's when Mac freezes, a cold, wet, sick feeling of dread flooding her entire body.
Because her apartment isn't east-facing – it doesn't get any of the morning sun. And she has a pillow that she clasps to her stomach in the nighttime, but never before has it felt so large and warm and firm.
And with a sudden, strangled gasp, Mac remembers everything from last night, all of it surging back like a tidal wave.
How it's the first time in forever that she's in bed before midnight, with the tantalizing promise before her of a rare decent night's sleep. She's been running on empty for so long that she can scarcely remember what it feels like not to be exhausted and starving and absolutely frayed, but it's a Saturday night, and with tomorrow's anniversary broadcast off the table, she has no excuse not to turn in early.
But giving herself permission to relax isn't as easy as it sounds, not when she's been under a growing mountain of stress for months, single-handedly trying to keep their show afloat amidst all the nonsense the universe has been throwing at them for the last year.
She thinks about calling Will. For a few weeks now, they've been sharing late-night phone calls on more nights than they haven't, and it's been so much easier to fall asleep after hearing his voice in her ear. But she has no pretext of a work-related problem to raise with him tonight, so she regretfully resists the impulse, hanging up three times before she can hit send. The last thing she wants is for him to feel like she's becoming a nuisance, and to stop taking her calls altogether.
How she wakes less than two hours later in a cold sweat, screaming herself hoarse, before leaping from the bed and sprinting into the en-suite, thoroughly emptying the contents of her heaving stomach. When she's sure that she's finished, Mac is shaky and hyperventilating and out of her mind with fear, only one coherent thought running through her brain: I need to see Will.
As soon as the dizziness passes, she spurs into action, barely taking the time to grab her phone and a jacket and the first pair of shoes that she sees before she's on the sidewalk outside her building, trying to flag down a cab. She realizes, too late, that she's forgotten her purse upstairs, but the idea of running back up there is physically unbearable – it would mean moving farther away from Will instead of towards him, and she's just not prepared to do that right now, no matter how much more logical it would be. And so, without a second thought, Mackenzie squares her shoulders and begins power walking on autopilot towards Hudson Street.
Of course, Will is going to kill her when he finds out what she's doing, but she can't help that. She has to see him. Now. Nothing else matters.
In a way, Mac is grateful for the walk. She's pretty sure that if she ever stops moving, the terror and the fatigue will overtake her, and then she'll never be able to get up again. In her woozy, petrified state, putting one foot in front of the other requires every bit of concentration she can muster, leaving hardly any space for her mind to wander back to the dream that woke her in the first place.
How this all works very well at first, until one errant, insidious thought slips past her blinders, almost stopping her racing heart. What if he isn't there? What if he's –
But this is an exceedingly dangerous line of questioning, and Mac quashes it swiftly before her mind can finish the sentence. She doubles her pace in an effort to outrun it, and hugs herself tightly to quell the sudden ache in her chest, but she can't shake the fear, now that it's found her.
Not slowing down even for a second, she fumbles with her Blackberry, her cold fingers trembling so violently that she has to scroll through her contacts three times before she finds his number.
She tries to school her breathing before he answers, tries to pull herself together so she doesn't worry him unnecessarily, but all her attempts amount to nothing as soon as he hears her voice, hears her sanity unraveling like the threads of every metaphor she has ever attempted.
How she is so certain, right up until the last second, that setting her eyes on Will is going to solve everything, that taking one look at him will be enough to reassure her.
This is a cruel trick on the universe's part, however, because the elevator doors part and Will comes into view, but Mac is paralyzed. She truly can't tell if the man standing before her is really him, or some mirage conjured up by her oxygen-starved brain, or if she's still at home in bed, and this is all part of her dream.
If she could only touch him, then she would know for sure if he's real, but she can't. She simply can't bear to close the gap between them, because if she does and he isn't, then it means that the dream is over, that it was true all along, and she's absolutely positive that she won't survive that.
Never mind the fact that Mackenzie relinquished her right to touch Will whenever she wanted to five years ago, and she's nowhere near certain that he won't push her away if she attempts it now. That wouldn't be quite as bad as the dream, but it's not far off.
The silent seconds stretch on unbearably between them, and she wishes desperately that she had the words to explain herself, but now that she's here, facing him, it's like her jaw is clamped shut.
How Will's hands are suddenly wrapping themselves around her own, ending the stalemate, and even that first point of contact, a light brush of his unmistakable fingertip against her skin, feels like it's reaching down and branding her very heart.
It's him.
He's here.
He's real.
He's okay.
The effect is instantaneous. Mac is suddenly sobbing in Will's arms, crying harder than she's ever cried in her entire life, so hysterical that she's frightening even herself, overcome with more emotions than she has names for. All along, a tiny part of her heart has been trying to brace itself for the single worst moment of her life, and when it doesn't come, she is not remotely capable of containing the response.
She has no concept of time after that, merely that she clings to Will like he's the only sturdy thing in a world that is falling apart around her ears. Finally, mercifully she loses consciousness.
Mackenzie remembers all of it in that split-second after waking, and understands, at last, that the sunlight is pouring in through Will's bedroom window. It's still early morning, so they haven't been sleeping long; it's been perhaps four or five hours since she arrived at his apartment.
And that wonderful warmth that she's clutching as if her life depends on it? That is Will himself, her face buried in his neck, her right hand fisted tightly in the front of his t-shirt. The shirt has ridden up in the night, so her wrist is resting on the hot, bare skin of his stomach.
Mac flinches as if she's scalded herself, but before she can unclench her fingers enough to withdraw them, Will seizes her arm, trapping it against his body.
Mackenzie burns with a thousand kinds of shame. "Please," she croaks, a wave of nausea swelling up inside of her. "This is already the most humiliating moment of my life. Please, please, please let me go, let me get out of here with whatever tiny shred of dignity I have left."
But Will does nothing of the sort, maintaining his firm grip on her arm, and when she understands that he is unwilling to grant her even this one small reprieve, Mac's heart plummets despairingly in her chest. She doesn't even have enough fight left in her to resist when he rolls over onto his back, pulling her rigid body into his arms, and guiding her spinning head to his chest.
"We need to talk about this," he says, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
Mac stiffens even further in his arms, the nausea and the dull ache of her head combining to make her feel like she's hung-over. She can't even appreciate how warm and solid his chest feels beneath her cheek because somehow, just like that, she has ruined everything. Again.
They have been getting along so well lately, and she wishes more than anything for a way to turn back the clocks, back to the way things were only yesterday, but she can't. No amount of damage control on her part is going to salvage this.
Still, with Will lying there, waiting for a response, and the apology hovering on her lips, it isn't long before the anxiety becomes too much and it comes spilling out of her. "I'm sorry," she says inadequately, the air hitching in her throat, her voice dangerously close to cracking. "I'm sorry for bothering you, I shouldn't have barged in on you like this. I'm sorry."
"Shhhh," Will murmurs, stroking the back of her neck with his thumb in just the right spot. "I'm not mad, you don't have to apologize or be embarrassed."
"You're … not?" Mac asks, breathless and uncertain, her tense body still primed to flee.
"No," he replies firmly. "But we are going to talk about this. I think you shaved about ten years off my life last night, so you're not sneaking out of here without an explanation."
He chooses his words well, because appealing to Mackenzie's guilty conscience will always work, at least where Will is concerned. She owes him so much, and for this not least of all.
But even now, Will doesn't push her. His thumb on her neck is joined by another on her bare arm, and both of them tell her to calm down, to breathe, to take her time. And eventually, she does, cautiously unclenching her muscles and taking slow, deep breaths, inhaling his comforting scent. As the headache and the nausea begin to recede, she allows herself, for the first time, to hope that Will is telling her the truth, that she has not done irreparable damage to their fragile friendship.
At last, Mac is relaxed in his arms once more, her breathing slow and even. Only then does Will ease them both up into a sitting position, their linked hands resting between them on the bed. Mac's face is crimson and swollen from her tears, but Will has seen far worse from her by now, so she lets her hair tumble back over her shoulders, and steadily holds his gaze.
"You okay?" he asks, just to be sure.
She nods, though she can't help blushing afresh, feeling extremely foolish about her behaviour now, in the light of day.
"What happened, Mac?" Will exhales, in a voice that tells her he's still stunned by what he witnessed just a few short hours ago.
"I had a nightmare," Mackenzie confesses. "You were—" but she breaks off abruptly, pressing one hand to her mouth and looking away, shaking her head. Even now, in the safety of Will's bedroom, and with Will himself by her side, the memory is still far too raw, and she can't describe what she saw without the words catching painfully in her throat.
"Rationally, I knew you were fine," she continues when she can speak again. "I knew that you were probably sleeping, but it was just so real, and I lost it, I panicked. I had to see for myself that you were okay."
"I'm fine," he tells her needlessly.
Mac nods wanly. "I know," she replies, though the images from her nightmare continue to assault her, playing themselves out in graphic detail in front of her mind's eye. Because this time, he's fine, but who's to say what tomorrow will bring? Especially in light of –
Fresh panic gnaws insistently at her heart, until she's blurting out, "Will you do something for me?"
"What?" Will asks, tilting his head to the side.
But Mackenzie hesitates and ducks her head, momentarily regretting her outburst.
"Mac?" Will prompts her.
She sighs. "Will you stop looking up those Will McAvoy hate websites?" she asks quietly, glancing up just in time to see Will's jaw drop.
"How did you—"
Mac smiles sadly. "You had your laptop open when I came into the studio before the last segment on Friday," she explains.
She didn't say anything about it then, not wanting to throw him off his game in the middle of a broadcast, but seeing that just about killed her, right there in the studio. She couldn't have been more devastated if he decided to take up again with one of those cheerleaders he had insisted on parading through the newsroom. Even firing her would hurt less than this.
"Mac, I—"
"Please?" she says, interrupting him. "I swear I'll stop asking what the voicemail said if you'll do this for me," she promises. She'll do anything, anything in the world for him not to hate himself so much.
But Will is still flabbergasted, gaping down at her like a fish, and Mackenzie is mortified to feel fresh tears stinging at the corners of her yes. "Billy, please?" she begs. She thought she cried herself dry last night, but the tears are trickling down her face for the thousandth time, and the words spill out of her mouth unbidden. "I can't walk in here and find you unconscious and bleeding on the floor again, I just can't!"
Mac claps a hand to her mouth, and tries desperately to twist away from his scrutiny, but once again Will is faster, seizing her wrist in his hand and holding it firmly between them until Mac is forced to meet his gaze.
"I promise," he tells her sincerely, and Mackenzie's head sinks tearfully onto his shoulder, her frame shuddering with relief.
"Thank you," she mumbles into his shirt, though the words are woefully inadequate.
"That's what your nightmare was about?" he asks softly, stroking her arm with his thumb.
"Yeah," she admits hoarsely. "Only, this time, you were – you didn't—"
"I get it," Will says, so she doesn't have to finish her sentence, doesn't have to tell him that the nightmare coursing through her brain is exactly like the one she and Lonny walked in on last month, except for one crucial detail.
He's still unconscious, his shirt and bathmat and a thousand other things still streaked with vomit and coppery blood, more blood than she's seen since she herself was stabbed. But this time, his lips are blue, and she doesn't need to wait for Lonny to check his pulse to know that they are too late, that he is already dead.
"I guess with all the fallout over the anniversary coverage, I didn't know how you were really taking it, and I got scared you might do something stupid," Mac explains softly. Even in the state she was in last night, she didn't miss the bourbon and the cigarettes on the coffee table, and it isn't too much of a leap to imagine that other forms of self-medicating might soon follow, intentional or otherwise. It would kill her if something were to happen to him now, when they are so much closer than they've been in years and seem on the verge of figuring things out.
"I promise," Will says again, more conviction in his voice this time, and she squeezes his arm gratefully.
They sit together for a few minutes in a comfortable silence after that, leaning against each other in a loose embrace. Eventually, though, Mac glances over at the clock.
"I should go," she says, though it's the last thing she wants to do. "It's still early, you can get a few more hours sleep if you want to, but you've been more than generous with me."
She squeezes him once more before disentangling their limbs and climbing from the bed, looking around for the few things she brought with her last night.
"Right, of course," Will coughs, as she's slipping into her shoes. "If you leave now, you can probably make it in time for the first rundown."
Mackenzie looks over at him from where she is bending over to pick up her jacket, her brow furrowed slightly. "What are you talking about? I'm not going in today."
"For the 9/11 anniversary, Mac," Will reminds her, puzzled himself now. "You asked everyone to come in early to go over the graphics and everything a couple more times before tonight."
Mac's frown deepens. "Will, I axed myself from the broadcast," she says slowly. "Don's producing tonight. Didn't Charlie tell you?"
"You did what?!" he exclaims.
"I was responsible for every word of the American Taliban broadcast, the same as you," she says firmly. "If it's enough to get you cut from the anniversary, then I'm out too. I can't believe you'd think I'd do the broadcast without you."
"Oh," says Will quietly, his gaze suddenly unfocused.
When he doesn't say anything more, Mac turns to go, but just as she reaches his bedroom door, Will blurts, "Stay and watch the coverage with me?"
Mac turns slowly back to face him. "What?" she asks, her eyes wide, certain she must have misheard.
"It's still early, most of the networks won't start until 8:00," he says. "If you don't have to go in to work, I thought maybe…" He trails off and scratches the back of his neck, plainly feeling silly for issuing the invitation. "Look, forget I said anything, I just—"
"I'd like that," Mac says, smiling shyly.
A few minutes later, she finds herself standing surreally in Will's magnificent shower, lathering up and watching the last of yesterday's sweat, tears and worries swirl down the drain. She rinses slowly, giving Will more than enough time to clear away the evidence of last night's vices from the living room.
When she emerges from the bedroom, Mackenzie is wearing an old t-shirt and sweats he has laid out for her, still tired, but far more relaxed than she has been in months. Will hands her a coffee mug, and she sips it gratefully. As the caffeine fills her system, she smiles to see that he still remembers how she takes it.
Will pours his own cup of coffee, and then they settle down together on the couch, sitting side-by-side in unspoken agreement. When Will isn't looking, Mac can't stop inhaling the scent of him on her shirt.
They spend the entire day like this, switching back and forth between FOX and CNN and half a dozen other networks, offering the occasional praise or criticism of the coverage, but mostly just choosing to watch it together in silence. They get up only when they need to replenish their coffees, or to throw a frozen pizza in the oven. It's not a happy day, by any stretch, but it feels right, spending it together like this, just the two of them.
Sometime after lunch, they find themselves sitting closer together than they were before, both with their legs outstretched, feet resting on the coffee table. Mac is all too aware of the heat of Will's leg where his thigh is touching hers.
For now, it is enough.
They'll switch to ACN later for the primetime coverage, though, and maybe, as they watch Sloan and Elliot and Don occupying the roles that they should be playing – maybe then, Mackenzie will take Will's hand.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Thanks so much for reading!
My goal was to have this posted in September 11th for the anniversary, but editing this chapter has been excruciating, and has taken forever … I think I rewrote entire pages of this chapter at least seven times, and even now I'm not sure I like how it all turned out. I blame the fact that I'm playing with time a bit in this fic. Yeah, that's the problem…
I apologize if you were expecting them to get together at the end, but I wanted it to fit believably into the timeline of early season two. I feel like they were growing closer at that point, but it made more sense to me to leave it as a friendship. I hope you'll leave a review and let me know what you think!