Even Educated Fleas Do It

By the time her security-escort-cum-driver Cesare dropped her off in the underground garage of the AWM tower, MacKenzie had considered what she assumed was every possible scenario at work this morning.

The one she thought most likely, was that Will simply wouldn't remember anything that had passed between them last night, the marijuana and Vicodin and extreme fatigue combining for a blissfully ignorant amnesia.

The second possibility was total recall—and attendant awkwardness. Would he regret his candor and opening himself up like that to the woman who'd hurt him so badly before?

A third scenario combined the other two: Will would remember but claim he didn't, allowing him to walk back everything with a minimum of awkwardness.

The lift's bell sounded, indicating the 23rd floor. She shifted her folio to the other arm, took a deep breath, and stepped out to the landing, right into Will.

"We need to talk," he said, pushing her back into the elevator and jabbing at the button for the lobby.

"We do, but—"

"We're about to be over-taken by events—something the Lansings set up, some truly misguided commemoration of News Night 2.0—but I can't go into that now—so I need to know—I really have to know right now—if I hadn't fallen asleep last night—"

"Can't we hold this for later?"

"No. We've got to get this straightened out, Mac."

She tapped her watch and said, indulgently, "I've got a pitch meeting in fifteen minutes—and we both still have a show tonight, you know."

The elevator reached the lobby and Will propelled her forward. "The show can wait a few hours. I'm not on until eight. Mac, we have to talk."

On the sidewalk, he disregarded the stares of passersby who parted for them. A taxi was already at the curb, having just disgorged a passenger, and he snagged it. He nudged her in and nodded expectantly until she offered up her own address.

"Honestly, Will, does this have to—"

"It does," he affirmed. Minutes later, he peeled off two bills and thrust them at the cabbie. "Keep it."

He didn't speak during the brief elevator ride up five floors, perhaps considering his next words, but the moment they crossed the threshold of her apartment, he began again in earnest.

"What would have happened last night if I hadn't—?"

"You were exhausted, you were definitely under the influence—you needed the sleep—"

"That's beside the point, and you're trying to change the subject." He put both hands on her shoulders to still her. "MacKenzie. I need to know. I've loved you without reservation—I deserve—"

"Will—you deserve better than me. I love you but I've failed you at every juncture. And I—"

"You love me?" His chin dipped and he tightened his grasp on her shoulders.

"Everything's ruined, Billy—I ruined it all. I tried to tell you—"

"You keep saying that and I don't understand."

"The night you filleted the Santorum aid. When you stayed in the studio to work on notes—everyone was gone, on the floor and in Control, and I—"

"I didn't hear it, Mac."

"You still had the IFB—I mean, I saw—and I told you—"

"I didn't hear you, Mac. What did you say?"

She slipped from his hold and retreated a step. "It doesn't matter—" she began.

"It absolutely matters," he shot back with barely contained intensity. "I was chained to a fucking wall, chained like some animal—I didn't know what was going to—and throughout it all, I kept trying to convince myself how grateful I was that I'd left no one behind to grieve or to miss me—but I just clung to the memory of you—us—and, later, when Charlie called—I thought perhaps—"

"Stop," she pleaded. "Please, stop—"

"I will never stop. I've never had a choice in this—thing of ours. You were always worth forgiveness, Mac, and I know that if you love me, there's a grace in that feeling that will help us find our way back." He reached a hand to stroke her face. "Please, MacKenzie—"

"—I do love you, Billy." But the admission seemed to break her, and she repeated in a weaker, watery voice, "I'm so, so sorry for all of it." Her eyes filled.

His expression became one of palpable relief. He brought his hands up to cup her face and brought his lips to hers.

"I was afraid I would, you know, be this," indicating the tears.

"It's okay—you can be this for now," he supplied, so close he was sharing her breath.

"But I'm happy to have it out. Really." Her stated happiness seemed at direct odds with the wetness on her face and the forced smile on her lips.

"Then we need to work on your non-verbals." It was only a small joke, just something to lift the mood. He gathered her back to him and rocked reassuringly. "Mac, you've been carrying these wounds for so long—lay it all down. Talk, if you want—I'll listen, I swear. No assumptions. Lay everything down, put it on me." He stroked her hair. "We're okay, Kenz."

It felt so good to hold and be held. It was an unburdening, a release of tension maintained for years, a gigantic sigh of the spirit. After a while, she finally pulled back and looked up at him.

"Yes?" he prompted, lifting an eyebrow.

"We've missed the pitch meeting. No chance to salvage any of the morning at work, and Jim can handle the first rundown—but—" Her smile grew and her eyes brimmed with affection and hope, despite the redness. "If you're up for a bit of celebratory carnality—I mean, we're here and—"

"Why, MacKenzie McHale—I think you're hot for me." Then, his roguish grin yielded to worry, of something just remembered. "Wait. Mac—there's still something I need to tell you—something kind of important, back at the office—"

"No." Emphatically. "We're not going to talk about anything at work now."

Her finality and his own reluctance to spoil the moment made him give in. She grabbed his forearm and gently tugged him down the short hallway.

Her bedroom was dim, thanks to a northern exposure, and tidy, the bed neatly made and throw pillows arranged just so. Mac had always been disciplined about things like making the bed.

"Protection?"

That gave her pause. "I'm not on—there wasn't a need—"

"You mean the Backstreet Boys you paraded through the newsroom—"

"They never came here—my god—Reese had me interviewing those boys for on-camera slots for morning side. Billy, you don't think that I would really—" She looked aghast at the speculation. "That was just—"

"Just theatre. I get it." He reached in his pocket and produced a foil-wrapped disk.

"And you just happened to have that with you?"

"Yeah," with a slow lascivious grin, "just happened. If you're sure I don't have to compete with the entire company of NSYNC—"

"Quite sure."

His eyes were dark and he was quiet as he unbuttoned the cuffs of her silk blouse and then moved to the buttons along her midriff. She seemed slighter than he remembered, more delicate, with fine, small wrists. When she reached for the zipper of her skirt to assist, he put his fingers over hers on the tab and they pulled in tandem, sending the skirt to puddle on the hardwood.

He leaned into her, now clad only in scraps of lace, and guided her down to the surface of the bed, his hand reaching to tip her chin up, lips to his. She opened her mouth to him and he slowly explored her softness, never unaware of the effect he was having upon her. He pressed a little harder, a little more forcefully, confident that the want was mutual and that intensity should outweigh gentleness just now.

His hand roamed to her breast, cupping and tracing the contour through the lace of her bra, his thumb and forefinger finally digging under the fabric and latching onto her nipple. He rolled and twisted it between his fingers, gratified by her soft moan of approval.

With a slight growl and a sudden movement, he sent a row of decorative pillows to the floor. She giggled softly and he pulled back an inch.

"Well—they make things crowded here."

"No argument, Billy," she licensed, still amused and silly with sensation. "But while you're throwing things off the bed, why not work on your—" She plucked lightly at his shirt.

In a flash, he yanked the navy T-shirt over his head and discarded it, then stood, to better shed his jeans and briefs.

"Much better."

She had pulled back the comforter in the interim, so that when he re-joined her they slid over soft cotton sheets. The warmth and scent of him and the familiar pressure of his hands on her shoulders flooded her with vivid sense memories. When he resumed the kiss, she shivered at the slight rasp of a beard (he usually shaved just before the show, so there had been overnight growth) against her skin, and his hand skimmed her torso before finally dipping to her lower back, dispatching the bra clasp en route. After several unnaturally long moments (obviously corollary to the Einstein's Theory of Special Relativity), his mouth moved to map her breasts and his hand slipped between her legs, rubbing a lazy circle across her clit, spreading her arousal over her folds before returning with purpose and insistency.

Helplessly, she began to move in in synch, her hips surging to follow the sensation. A warm flush spread across her skin and she was hit suddenly, forcefully, with the realization of how she had missed him, this. It had been so long since she'd touched him, tasted him, allowed herself to think of him.

"MacKenzie?" He noticed her thousand yard stare.

"Don't stop, Billy—please, please, don't—"

Seconds later she came, hard, his name figuring prominently amid the grateful nonsense streaming from her lips. He pulled her close for a kiss that, for her, was somewhat masked by that sudden sensory overload, but was, for him, the necessary emotional coda.

After a half minute, she stirred and lifted her hand.

He took it and tugged gently. "C'mere." He propped himself against the headboard and guided her to his lap. "Up on your knees," he whispered, shifting her so that she stradled him, facing him. "I need to see you, Kenz." His eyes were darkest cerulean as he leaned forward for another soft kiss, then nipped at her jawline and the tender hollows at the base of her neck.

She wrapped her fingers around his erection and gave some appreciative and unhurried strokes, provoking heavy exhalations and a long blink, before he reached to still her. He grabbed the foil packet from the nightstand but she took it from his hands and rolled the condom on his cock.

His hands dropped to her ass and he pulled her forward. "Meet me, babe."

It took a moment for their bodies to fit together again, long enough to elicit a polite stage laugh but never of real concern. This was right. This wasn't memory or imagining, this was real.

His hands rested on her hips, fingers flexing to guide her ripples against him. She was hot and wet and he still loved the delicious sensation of her muscles clenching around him.

He tried to arch his own hips upward to help her along, trying to remember everything she liked. He moved his hand to the junction of their bodies and pressed his thumb to her clit. Her thighs began to tremble, and her eyes, dreamily half-lidded with sensation until this point, suddenly widened slightly. He took that as his cue to tighten his grip and speed the pistoning motion of their bodies. She stiffened for a few moments, eyes fluttering closed, then sagged against him.

"I never stopped, Will. Never."

The rapid thrum of her heart and her soft, ragged pants against his neck made it evident that he could seek his own release now. He pulled her harder against him, trying to move deeper in her. Finally ceding self-control, he followed her over the edge.

"God, Mac," he managed hoarsely.

For a lazy hour or so, they abandoned words entirely and relied upon the tactile, gently tracing remembered patterns on each inch of flesh.

Finally, MacKenzie sighed and glanced at the clock.

"It's past eleven. We should probably—"

"We could call in sick—"

She made a face. "Simultaneous sickness? You don't think that might be a bit far-fetched?"

He pulled himself to the edge of the bed and sat up. "Worth a try."

"But the nation is depending on News Night with Will McAvoy—informed electorate and all that—"

"True," he acknowledged with comically blatant false modesty. Grunting, he slipped on his watch and picked up his phone. "Uh oh. The long arm of the news." He tapped to return the call.

"Finally!" Maggie's tone was gloating. "If you two truants are finished with brunch by now—I assume she's with you—"

"She is." He pivoted the phone on his ear and, sweeping Mac's hair to one side, nibbled at her nape. "Should I put you on speaker? We've been brainstorming some ideas about the debates—"

"Please." It was clear Maggie's credulity was severely taxed. "There's still a show tonight, so unless you want me and the Boy Wonder to screw things up, you both should consider coming in. Buncha people in the bullpen looking for direction—and it doesn't help knowing inquiring eyes will be around, if you know what I mean." Pause. "I assume you told—"

He swung to the other side of the bed and spoke quickly to cut her off. "We were just getting to that."

"Oh." Beat. "Well, then, good luck. And Jim and I will talk to Sloan about a contingency—"

"That isn't—that won't be—" He exhaled heavily. "Thanks for the call, Maggie, and pull the Boy Wonder off the ceiling. We'll pack up our notes and you'll see us in a little while."

"Right. Don't forget your notes." Her harrumph came through the phone, loud and clear. "One more thing—Charlie Skinner's on the war path, so no more free range taxis. Call your security bubba." She disconnected.

He pitched the phone at the night table a little too eagerly and it skittered across and fell to the floor, the drop cushioned by a discarded pillow.

"Trying not to be an egotist—but it sounds as if I may have been a topic of the conversation?"

"Yeah. Maggie and Jim, wondering whether we're coming in today." He weighed how to continue. "Remember what I was trying to tell you earlier this morning?"

"Will, I think I—"

He threw up both hands to compel her attention. "No, really, Mac, you have to let me—you're going to find out as soon as you get there, and you're—"

"I know already." Sitting up, she had both hands locked on the edge of the bed, head down. "Reese Lansing has put Brian Brenner in our newsroom to write an article about the re-vamped News Night. Sloan wormed it out of Charlie last night and left me a message."

His jaw slackened with surprise. "You know? And it doesn't bother—"

"Of course it bothers me," she batted back, testily. "I will say it bothers me less this morning than it might've several days ago. But, still, the Lansings running roughshod over my life—our lives—inviting him here—" She paused to gauge his reaction. "It doesn't bother you that Reese selected him of all people to write about our newsroom?"

Buttoning his shirt, he turned away briefly—the better to maintain a façade of ambiguity. "Charlie raged at Reese again this morning, but he and his mother are absolutely intractable. They want some good press—some malleable press, let's say—to distract from the dust we've stirred up."

"Why would he even do the piece?" It was the rhetorical question she'd been turning over in her mind since receiving Sloan's message.

"Means to an end. He needs a cover story, needs to be seen as a heavyweight again. Four years ago, he was on the masthead at Newsweek, turning out ten cover stories a year and spending Sunday mornings with the talking heads of political commentary. Today, he has a blog." Will shrugged. "He won't write a tell-all—he's got too much to lose." He offered a hopeful smile. "We're fine."

"Brian comes with an axe to grind, you can be sure. He only works from self-interest, and this will just be too tempting for him. " MacKenzie knew her assessment was more honest than Will's, but threw in the towel on further discussion. Their reconciliation still seemed too tentative to risk discussing the current motives of a former lover.

"Besides, Leona's been gunning for me since I returned," he continued, intent on some deflection of his own. "She'd love to see me doing cheap features on ACN Morning."

"Over Charlie Skinner's dead body. Not to mention my own."

He closed the distance between them. "I had other plans for your—"

"In that case, we'll both have something to look forward to. That is, if we can keep your stamina up."

"You can't possibly have any complaints about my stamina."

"Not yet," she laughed, dropping a light kiss on his lips. "I'm just feeling—vested in it now."

While she readied herself for work for the second time that morning, Will followed Maggie's counsel and summoned his Blue North detail. Late morning had morphed into high noon by the time Lonny called to advise the car was at the curb, waiting.

On the way outside the building, Mac suddenly stopped and pulled Will aside.

"Tell me again this is real."

"Very real." He kissed her.

She nodded over quickly. "Just don't want to wake up and—"

"But you tell me something, now. If you knew already, was this morning—the last coupla hours—was this just defiance for the Lansings bringing him in—?"

She cut him off. "This morning was when I stopped denying myself what I really wanted. You."

oooo

Whatever theories Lonny Church may have had about why McAvoy and McHale were coming out of her apartment building together, he gallantly kept to himself. He even managed to keep his face expressionless as he opened the rear door of the Escalade.

As Mac turned to enter the vehicle, a pinpoint dot of red light seemed to dance over her silk blouse.

Unconsciously, Will made an immediate association and looked back at Church. In seeming validation, Lonny shifted into a defensive choreography.

Protect the principal.

He shoved first Mac, then Will himself, through the open car door. Reverting to well-practiced tactics, he scanned the sidewalk for threats and ran around to the driver's side. Then, he put the car in gear and accelerated into a gap in the on-coming traffic.

oooo

During the ride, Mac seemed oblivious to any unusual concern or haste on the part of the driver. Will, still uncertain of the import of what he had seen, decided not to entertain any discussion of the matter at the moment. No point to upsetting her, and he was sure Lonny would be more forthcoming in his assessment one-on-one.

As soon as they stepped from the elevator at the AWM tower, staffers were lined up for an audience with Mac, so she offered a parting apologetic smile at Will before walking toward them. As she left, Will shot a sharp glance at Lonny and motioned to his office.

"You saw what I saw?"

Lonny nodded.

"Laser-sighted weapon?"

"I think so, yeah."

Will couldn't get over the laser's red dot settling on Mac's silk blouse. "What do we do?"

"For starters, we—" emphasizing the majestic plural, "could get serious about using the protective escort that's been provided. We could stop with the spree rides in unvetted taxis and parading through unknown apron areas like that sidewalk."

"Yeah, yeah, got it," Will acknowledged, not liking the scolding. "What about this guy that's assigned to her?"

"Cesare's a good man—"

"Is he really good? Is he the best available? Maybe you two need to swap assignments for a little while—"

"Someone a little higher on the food chain makes that call, not me." Lonny seemed to think aloud. "There was clear targeting but no shot fired."

"So whoever it is is just trying to scare us? Counting coup?"

"Hey, McAvoy, make up your mind what side you wanna argue. Weren't you the guy who said that a serious assassin wouldn't send you an email beforehand to warn you?" He frowned. "Still, something's changed. I need to talk to Scott at Blue North."

"Yeah. You do that."

oooo

MacKenzie finally finished with the supplicants and made it to her office, where she found Sloan leaning against the desk, arms crossed expectantly.

"You're waiting to see me, too?" Mac asked, setting down her folio and purse. "How did I become so indispensable in only twelve hours?"

"I wasn't thinking indispensable. I was thinking—incommunicado."

"I got your message, thanks—I guess." She made a face to convey how little she liked the news. "I tried to call back last night, but you—"

"I was lost in the Twilight Zone with Larry and Curly all night. And, evidently, cell phones don't work in all elevators—who knew?—and the freight elevator at McAvoy's building is not one of the ones where they do—work, that is—and the alarm in that elevator is just part of the problem with it, because it didn't work either, just like the up-and-down part, and during the times when it did work, nobody paid any attention to it at all—the alarm, I mean—so we—"

"Hold on, hold on." Mac put out a hand to stop her friend's recitation. "Are you saying you were stuck in the lift at Will's—"

"Not stuck—trapped! With a man who is, let's face it, a poster child for happy marriages, and another man who—"

There was a soft rap at the door and Don Keefer peered in.

"Am I interrupting anything important?" He slid in regardless.

Sloan's expression curdled.

"Here he is—Mr. How to Succeed in Television without Really Trying."

He put a finger alongside his nose in recognition of her parody. "Good—very good!" He shifted his glance back to Mac.

"I wanted to ask for a few extra minutes tonight."

"I don't think I can give it to you." Mac began scanning the headlines on the stack of papers on her desk. "We've got follow up on the bin Laden raid—and there's the injunction on the Wisconsin law curbing collective bargaining, which will be a roadblock for Governor Scott Walker—plus, the upset in New York's 26th congressional district—"

"How important can—"

Sloan pounced. "It's New York's most conservative district and it's about to go Democratic for the first time in 70 years. Kinda important."

"And so is this: the House is going to vote up or down on increasing the debt ceiling—"

"Don't they do that all the time?"

Mac cleared her throat. "I don't think I have the time to give you tonight—"

Don persevered. "Listen to me, this should be your lead story. Congress is attempting to take the U.S. Treasury hostage. This might be the first time in history the House lets the U.S. default on its debt. Even worse, it could be the first round in a very reckless, extremely dangerous partisan fight that can only end in financial catastrophe—" Noticing their glazing eyes, he paused. "Let me explain—"

"I can't give you the time."

"If Congress doesn't raise—"

"I can't give you the extra time, Don—you'll have to cover it in what you've already got."

He sighed audibly. "This is a complicated subject and it's going to take some background to bring the average viewer up to speed enough just to understand the debate. I need more than three minutes at the end of the D block."

"I'll give it to you."

Mac and Don both turned to look at Sloan—Mac openly puzzled at Sloan's acquiescence and Don gratified that he'd successfully made his case to someone.

"Can't lead with it, of course, because we have to follow up the raid, too—but I can let you have C block for sure and B if you can make your case for newsworthiness for me at the rundown. Deal?"

Don looked from woman to woman, beaming, before turning back to Sloan. "You're the greatest!" he enthused, departing.

"I really am," Sloan deadpanned.

Mac was beginning to suspect ulterior motives at work. "Is there something between you two? What happened in that lift last night?"

"We were chaperoned, remember? Sir Elliot-the-Chaste?" Sloan shrugged. "That nerdy little guy is growing on me." Then she returned to the subject at hand. "We were talking about the Lansings hiring you-know-who to—"

"Actually, I don't think we'd gotten as far as talking about that."

"Charlie's still arguing it with Reese, but—I think he'll be here tomorrow."

"Great," Mac said, while making it plain the news was anything but.

oooo

When Sloan finally departed, Mac sank down into her chair and exhaled shakily. The constant barrage since her arrival had diluted the impact of the morning. Intoxicated confessions. Reluctant admissions. A newly-revived romance now facing a familiar source of trauma. And all following on top of one of the most thrilling and disquieting nights of breaking news in her experience.

Her desk line buzzed. She might have guessed it would be Charlie.

"Look, Mac—I know Will must've told you by now—and don't shoot the messenger, I offered to tell you but he insisted it should come from him. And I wanted you to know how sorry I am—I've talked to Reese until I'm blue in the face but I can't—"

"It's okay, Charlie."

"Oh." There was a pause while he digested her easy assent. "You know, if you wanted to take a few weeks off right now, a kind of strategic get-away—you'd get no objection from me. Will's stuck, because Leona wants to play up the whole war correspondent angle, but you—"

"Charlie, everything will be fine." Did she really believe that? This was Brian Brenner, after all, of whom they were speaking. And it was a delicate time, what with she and Will having just—well, come to an understanding, if she could think that without a giggle at the understatement.

"If you say so. But, Mac, I want you to think about time off anyway. You've got plenty of it banked up. You've got a very capable and well-trained staff. Let them carry the load for a bit and—"

"Thanks for your concern, Charlie. But it isn't necessary."

"I'm just thinking to prevent any awkwardness—there's a history here and —"

"Charlie," silencing him with his name. "The history you know is wrong. I misrepresented it. Will never—and Brian wasn't—" She choked a little, not so much from emotion but from the shame of having to admit an untruth that had festered for years.

Another pause.

"Why don't you come up to my office for a few minutes?"

oooo

Mac returned an hour later, intersecting Jim in the bullpen.

"Final rundown ready?"

"Yeah." His eyes searched her. "Is everything all right? You seem a little—"

"There's no problem, Jim. I'm fine," she lied. "Did you get the SOT with Walker's aid?"

He began guiding her toward the conference room, handing her a legal pad with written notes and several sheets of printed information.

"Yeah, and we have an interview with Hochul."

She stopped. "Really? That's good. Who did that?"

"Gary knew a guy who knew a guy."

"Well. The new Democratic representative of the 26th District. That's good work. What else?"

They entered the conference room together, and Mac went immediately to the head of the room, next to the white board on the easel.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Jim gave me the preliminary rundown, so let's get to work and tighten this up. There's the expected fallout in Abbottabad—a suicide bomber in Shabqatar who left 80 dead and 120 wounded—head of the IMF Dominique Strauss-Kahn arrested in France—Bosnian-Serb general Ratko Mladic captured today and held on charges of overseeing a massacre that may have killed up to 8,000 Muslims."

When she looked up and down the table, she was slightly unnerved to see Will holding a drink can with the unmistakably silver and blue logo of Red Bull.