Throwing Out the Rundown
It cost $25,000 to buy Nina Howard's silence. Slightly more than a day's wages, under the present contract with AWM.
But the deal was a bargain, because there was no mention of the previous week's unfortunate incident in the press and MacKenzie was back at work at the customary time on Tuesday morning. Though still present, the bruising had diminished significantly, and Mac cultivated a new habit of allowing her hair to curtain off her right eye.
How very Veronica Lake.
The staff noticed, but, to a person, apparently resolved to follow her lead and not acknowledge it.
Will followed suit simply because it was the path of least resistance. If his attempt to patch things up with her on Saturday had soured, he was at least determined not to make things worse.
oooo
While Mac and most of the producers hashed out the first rundown, Will dithered in his office, flipping his heavy Zippo lighter on its outer edge, around and around. Finally, he made the decision to proceed with this risky course. He also decided to use Maggie as his surrogate. Jim had been a contender until Will realized that, if and when he found what Will expected he would, Jim could be a loose cannon. Will couldn't rely that Jim would give him the information instead of acting on it himself.
So it had to be Maggie. As his nominal assistant, Will had claim to both her time and loyalty.
"Maggie—special assignment. You up for it?"
She gulped in pleased surprise. "Yes—yes, sure—I—"
"Good." Seeing that she had neglected to bring a notepad and pen when summoned (What do they teach these kids in J school?), he tossed the necessary tools to her. "I need you to look at some police records. Metro D.C. police, probably the second district. May-June, 2007."
She scribbled furiously and he paused, waiting for her to catch up. When many seconds passed and she was still writing, he cleared his throat.
She looked up, guiltily.
"Do you want to know what you're looking for?"
"Um—"
"Domestic battery." At her panicked look, he added, "You can write it down."
Gratefully, she resumed scribbling, managing two full lines before pausing again. No one had mentioned that News Night would be veering into Dateline territory. "Are there any names I should be looking for?"
"You'll know when you find it."
"Um… how about privacy issues, any possibility the information can't be released?"
"Good question. But, no. Police calls are pretty much open public records."
Unconvinced, she nodded anyway, because that was what he seemed to expect.
"And when you have the information, bring it to me. Got that? No one else."
That prompted a more frantic nod. A nebulous assignment under strange rules of secrecy. And, god, there must be 10,000 cases a year of domestic abuse in a big city like Washington.
Maggie felt overwhelmed by the time she left Will's office.
oooo
The karaoke machine at Hang Chew's was out of order, had been all week. Would-be singers were forced to listen to management's choice instead, making a much more pleasant bar-scape for employees and any would-be audience alike.
"MacKenzie ."
Sloan dropped her bag onto the cushion of the booth and slid across.
"Hey. I heard you were here." Pause. She gestured to her face. "It's looking better." Then, the strategic change of subject. "Go anywhere over the weekend?"
Mac shook her head. "You?"
"A think-tank conference outside Baltimore. The Institute for Capital Studies and Economic Growth. It was a raver."
"I think it's called a rager."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
"So, I stopped by to give you a heads-up I'll need a couple of extra minutes tomorrow night. The House is going to vote up or down on increasing the debt ceiling. It's a cosmetic vote, but it will be news because it's the first time in history the House would let the U.S. default on –"
"I can't give you the extra time." Mac gave the dregs of her Cosmo a bitter swirl. "Starting tomorrow, I have to cover Casey Anthony."
Two beats went by before Sloan offered, thoughtfully, "I really liked that we weren't doing that."
Mac drained the rest of her drink. "I liked it, too."
Sloan ran on. "But by putting the vote in the A block, we'd be sending a strong—"
"I can't!" Now Mac's voice was tinged with exasperation. "Sloan, we lost half our audience last week. Half our audience went to HLN at 8. If we don't bring them home this week, we'll have lost most of them for good." She spied the barkeep. "Ted, can I have another?"
Sloan leaned closer. "Hey, how about Brian Brenner? I've been reading him for years. He's cute. Is he single?"
"He is."
"Are you interested?"
"No." Flatly.
Sloan sniffed, "That's contempt prior to investigation."
"No, that's contempt after thorough investigation."
"You dated him? When?"
"About six years ago."
"That's—wait—" Sloan frowned in thought. "Six years ago you were with the guy you were with before Will—"
Two more beats passed.
"Oh, my god, Sloan, it's like the land where time stands still. Brian Brenner is the guy I cheated on Will with."
"Wow. Still buffering here." Sloan digested the information. "Wait, why would Will bring Brenner in to do the piece?"
"That is a perfectly fair question, to which I have no answer."
Her replenished Cosmo arrived and Mac reached for it gratefully.
oooo
On Wednesday morning, a visibly disturbed Maggie was sitting in Will's office when he arrived.
"Maggie?"
Her mouth opened, then closed. Opened again. Closed again. Finally, she forced words out.
"You knew."
He dropped his leather satchel on the table. "I had a suspicion."
"Why did you—I don't want to—would have never wanted to—"
He took the chair opposite. "I still need you to tell me what you—"
Mechanically, she opened the steno pad and began to read from her notes.
It was bad enough that the exact statistics for incidents of domestic abuse in the metropolitan area of Washington, D.C. were triple what Maggie had imagined. Staggeringly, or precisely—one call to authorities every 17 minutes. Over 31,000 for the year in question, over 5,000 for the 60 day period Will had specified in the search parameters.
And, on 25 May 2007, hospital personnel treating MacKenzie McHale for maxillofacial trauma had summoned Metro Police as part of the usual domestic abuse intervention protocol. Hospital staffers were surprised and somewhat aggrieved by her reaction; police, on the other hand, were well-acquainted with the rationalizations and outright denial. She named no names, claimed no incident, and attributed the injury solely to what she termed a certain in-bred clumsiness. Absent an accusation from the victim, the cops could do nothing beyond make a note of the call and the circumstances.
MacKenzie McHale was treated for multiple contusions and a broken nose and released with a surfeit of instant cold packs.
Nina Howard's information had been correct.
oooo
"Why did it have to be Brian?"
Will lit the cigarette he had been postponing when she barged into his office. "Because I own him now. He needs a cover story. If he writes a negative one, he'll get slammed with the whole soap opera of our history."
Mac tried to decipher his expression. "Are you lying right now?"
In response, he took a long hit of nicotine from the cigarette.
"This isn't a good idea, Will," she allowed quietly. "I've spent every day for the last year trying to worm my way back into your good graces. And this—this just confirms I can never—" She stopped. "Besides, I don't fancy having my mis—having my life on display."
"It's only a week, Mac." His tone softened a bit at the dejection she was failing to hide. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. Sloan says the House is going to vote to default on our loans, leading to a global economic meltdown. Should I put that before or after Anthony Weiner in his underwear?" Her sarcasm was hard to miss.
"I'm sure you'll figure it out." Tersely.
As Mac exited she held the door for Sloan, who barreled right in.
"Forget to knock?" Will asked.
"Didn't forget." She looked to make sure that Mac had gone into the bullpen and that the door was closed. "What's going on with this writer hanging around?"
Will stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray and tried to busy himself moving papers on his desk. "It's like the kid at the end of—"
"Don't even go there with your peculiar analogies to popular culture," she warned. "It's this particular writer—"
"I don't have to justify the decision to you, Sloan."
"You couldn't. But I just wondered how you're justifying it to yourself. And—" she inclined her head, "—to her."
Will's jaw tightened, but he managed a level voice. "I understand you want some time tonight to talk about the fiscal crisis."
"Oh, just a few minutes to mention the debate over raising the debt-ceiling limit, capping the most volatile week for financial markets since the crash of 2008. And that Moody's is warning that U.S. debt could be downgraded, imperiling valuation of T-notes and threatening the value of our currency in world markets. And that, according to Barclays, the Treasury will run out of cash around August 10th, just when $8.5 billion in Social Security payments are due, so that Granny and Grampa will be eating cat food by the end of September." She crossed her arms. "But I certainly understand why you'd rather give the air time to a deranged cocktail waitress and a sexually immature congressman."
"Sloan—"
"That's okay, bro. You hang tight to your high-minded dedication to entertaining the public, rather than enlightening. And keep justifying all the hurt you're doing along the way."
oooo
"The prescription isn't helping?"
Habib, as was his wont, pitched the question while tacitly turning his attention elsewhere, looking through the drawers of his desk, rifling through the contents of each.
Will recognized it as a diversionary tactic. Perhaps such studied carelessness encouraged off-the-cuff responses, or reduced prevarication. Jacob Habib was obviously dying to know why Will was here, only the third scheduled session he had kept in years. Will decided to meet the doctor's nonchalance with his own.
"It isn't the prescription that's a problem, it's the dosage. It works fine when I double it."
"Don't do that, Will. Seriously." Habib stopped the cavity search of his desk and walked around to where Will stood. "The zolpidem has fewer side-effects and lowered risk of dependency than anything else I could prescribe, but it still carries significant—"
Will took one of the over-stuffed chairs. "Don't get spooled up."
"Even with the non-benzodiazepines, over-dosing is a serious—"
"I'm not, I'm not. It was just a—conversation starter."
Wary now, Habib eased into the facing chair. "What conversation should we have?"
"I don't know. I come to you for answers."
"No, you come to me for sleeping meds. What can I do for you today, Will?"
Will shot a glance at the clock. 10:16. He owned the time until the top of the next hour. So he began to talk about what had happened the previous week, the accidental contact with MacKenzie. Saturday morning—which had gone well until it hadn't. The pressure of knowing he was being scrutinized by Leona Lansing. Picking Brian to write the article. The ratings debacle and now being forced to cover Casey Anthony.
"Wait. You brought MacKenzie's old boyfriend in to write—what, a work-place tell-all?"
"It isn't a tell-all, it's the story of how we returned to doing the news. The real news. You make it sound like the latest iteration of Duck Dynasty. Besides, it was a good choice, a fail-safe choice, in fact. Even if Brenner is dismissive of what we're doing, it will come off as being filtered by his own cynicism."
"What about the personal—?"
"We talked about that. He won't be bringing up any of that. It would compromise his integrity."
"But—Brian Brenner. Can you possibly believe that choice was accidental?"
"Don't get all Freudian—"
"It doesn't take a Freudian to detect subliminal anger—lingering resentments—an inability to let go of the past—"
"He specializes in media analysis. Plus, he's hungry and needs a venue."
Habib nodded reflexively but it was evident he wasn't buying it. "You think he's capable of an unbiased article, given the history between you three?"
"We talked about that. I told him to just write the truth."
"The truth," Habib echoed, unconvinced. From what untapped well of emotional largesse did this carteblanche spring? "I hope your confidence is well-placed. How does MacKenzie feel about this?"
Will shrugged theatrically. "Probably happy about it. Maybe they can pick up where they—"
"Do you believe what you're saying or are you just fucking with me again?"
Will straightened in the chair and rubbed his palms over his thighs. "I've been trying to provoke a response—"
"A response from MacKenzie? Because you think she hasn't been forthcoming with you?"
Will made a grunt of amusement. "Wouldn't be the first time, you know. And I made the effort last week, I really—"
"Waiting 48 hours to apologize hardly makes you an exemplar of grace, Will." The young doctor glanced at the clock. "Why don't we try something? Why don't we try a little role playing—"
Will stood and began smoothing wrinkles from his pants. "I've got a pitch-meeting in fifteen—"
"That's for the minions, not for you. My eleven canceled, so I'm free. On the house, so to speak, in consideration of all the missed appointments." Habib fixed him with a steady stare. "I think you want to know why things happened as they did last week and this is eating you up and will continue to eat you up until we get to the bottom of it. And that's why you're here, not to whine about your sleeping pill."
Long seconds passed as Will searched for a snappy come-back.
"Sit back down," Habib motioned. "You be the doctor for a while."
"And you're gonna be me?"
"I'm not going to be anyone. But I want you to ask the questions you would ask of MacKenzie, if she were here—"
"You're going to be Mac?"
"Again, no—"
"So where do the answers come from?"
"Socratic ratiocination. It's a process whereby you arrive at the answers yourself."
"Do you want to tell me again why I need a shrink for this? And, besides—don't you think I've already asked myself why she's behaved like this?"
"I think you've asked yourself. I want you to ask her. Metaphorically-speaking, of course."
"Evidently, Mac let someone beat up on her years ago. She refuses to talk to me about it."
"That's a statement, not a question."
"Playing Jeopardy, are we? Okay. So, why did she let someone beat up on her, and why won't she talk about it?"
"Much better. What answers occur to you?"
"Nothing. I told you, I've been over and over—"
"Go back. Check your assumptions. You said she let someone beat her. Is she some kind of masochist?"
"No." Except that being near me lately begins to beg that description.
Habib rotated his index finger, indicating Will should go on.
"Okay, 'let' is probably the wrong word. But she's protecting whoever it is—" At Habib's pointed look, Will rephrased it. "Why. Why is she protecting someone?" He sat back in his chair.
"You're certain it isn't some sort of denial on her part—perhaps some coping mechanism—"
"No."
"Okay. Then, what makes you assume she's protecting someone?"
Will snorted. "I've worked in the D.A.'s office, I'm familiar with all the usual—"
"Plus, of course, you have some personal—"
Will's eyes narrowed as Habib spoke.
"—experiences, so perhaps you can think of another—"
"I don't see what this has to do with—"
"How about shame?" Habib volunteered. "Your father hit you—feel any shame about that?"
"I'm not—" Will began, then stopped, knowing what he was about to say wasn't true, was only being said to distance himself. There had been shame. Shame in being so weak that you could be preyed upon by a familiar threat. Shame that you couldn't stand up for yourself. Then, shame again when you finally did, because then you had to make explanation for why you permitted the earlier transgression. Why it escalated, unless by your consent. As if you could have stopped it before it started.
"A possibility," Habib offered a small, sympathetic smile. "Don't discount it. Plus, there are issues of self-esteem. I know that the two of you have had a rapprochement of sorts since her return—I mean, you're on civil terms, most of the time—"
"When I'm not accidentally bashing her in the face, you mean."
Habib ignored the retort and put his finger tips together. "Does MacKenzie know your family history?"
"It came up once," Will allowed, guardedly. Beat. "All the more reason why she should have known she could talk to me."
"Perhaps she chose not to add to your burden? In any event, your relationship is entirely work-based now, true? Such a relationship doesn't necessarily foster the sharing of deeply personal confidences. So perhaps something that occurs outside the work environment isn't something she wants to share. Perhaps it seems invasive—beyond the boundary of the office. Relationships between co-workers can be problematic, aggravated by tensions relating to functions and goals."
"She walked in, she walked out, and there were a thousand days in between. I'm over it. We're colleagues now, we have the same goals." Will waved a dismissive hand. "This is ridiculous."
"Still, you introduced Brian into the work environment. A professional competitor, of sorts, for all of you. A personal competitor—"
"We're back to this again? Brian and I aren't competing for anything. Or anyone."
"Nonetheless, you've changed the dynamic of your newsroom."
"Have you lost the thread of the original conversation? About why Mac—"
"Why Mac wouldn't talk to you."
"Exactly. Which pre-dated any of this other stuff—"
"Brian."
"—you're bringing up." Will sighed in exasperation and looked at his watch. "11:40. I really have to go now."
"You know, Will, while you're working your way through this—this might hurt her."
It was supposed to.
Will said nothing.
oooo
"This is Hang Chew's. The staff adopted it as their hangout because they get cheap food and drinks until 9:00."
Brenner opened his notebook with his familiar smirk. "Can you spell that?"
"N-I-N-E- O-C-"
"Is it important that you treat me like I'm an asshole?"
Mac shrugged. "I wouldn't say important so much as it just feels right."
"I thought all parties had agreed it would be better, you know, to keep our past out of this."
She looked at her glass of cab and tried to calculate how many it usually took to exorcise the past.
He continued. "That said, I'd like to point out that you broke up with me, too."
Whoa. Was Brian actually attempting to portray himself as the aggrieved party?
"Write this down, Brian, because evidently you've forgotten some crucial facts. You dumped me, then drunk dialed me and somehow convinced me to crawl back for a few nights. Then I broke up with you. Fini, n'est ce pas?"
"You forgot about the part where you were with Will behind my back."
She shook her head. "I was with you behind Will's back."
"That makes it sound so much better."
It didn't, of course.
"Mac, he doesn't want you."
"Please don't talk about my personal life."
He scratched at his beard. "Well, is it all right if I talk about my personal life? Yes, I broke up with you. I'm the first guy ever to break up with a woman. And now I'm here—"
"Only through a spectacular lapse of judgment on Will's part."
"Oh, I think he's being pretty canny."
"What do you plan on writing, Brian?"
"Not sure yet."
She swirled the wine, looked up, then put the glass back down, untouched. "Show some integrity this time."
"Integrity, huh? Just the facts, ma'am? About News Night? Or about Will?" He tossed off his scotch. "Because, you see, I have Will pegged as a lonely guy. Seduced by a pseudo-intellectual solipsism. Needs his audience to offset his lonely nights. All alone." He smirked. "But maybe he isn't as alone as has been depicted. Not anymore."
"What are you snidely suggesting?"
"Maybe—since you're back now—maybe—"
"You're such a shit, Brian." She reached for her bag.
He grabbed her arm. "But we haven't finished the interview—"
She dumped her glass into his lap and he released her in surprise.
"I hear white wine will take out the stain," she said, aware that a few tables away, Don and Maggie were following the action.
oooo
The total absence of soundproof glass was never more in evidence.
Neal scuffed his chuka boots against the podium. Don leaned against his. Maggie, Kendra, and Gary appeared to study their notes. Jim kept his face down. Brian Brenner, who had been watching intently from his perch on the corner of a desk, craned to catch MacKenzie's reaction.
The voices coming from Will's office now were loud and angry and unmistakable.
Then the RNC guy, Tate Brady, stormed across the bullpen to the elevator landing. Will's friend Adam Roth trudged behind a minute later.
It was another agonizing minute before Will finally rejoined his staff on the floor.
"I'm sorry, everyone. We, uh, lost the debate." He met each of their gazes in turn. Mac had turned away, her head sunk low.
Pulling off the gray sweatshirt labeled Michelle Bachman, Jim cleared his throat. "Okay, people, we've got about an hour to air."
As staffers peeled off to attend to normal pre-show tasks, Mac approached Will.
"I'm sorry. This is all my—"
"Remember your first day here, the BP spill? Remember when I said, throw out the rundown? Did you think that was cool?"
"I—yeah—but—"
"Mac." He seemed almost manic. "Throw out the rundown."
"Wait—no—we still need the numbers, Leona—"
"Charlie can finesse Leona. He's been doing it for twenty years." He shrugged. "Let's give Sloan the forum she needs and let her run with it."
Mac wasn't sure how to react, the turnaround was so startlingly abrupt. Perhaps while he was changing his mind about things, she could put in a plug. "Then, I think maybe considering everything that's gone on here this week, you should reconsider having Brian write the piece."
Will cast a sidelong glance at Brenner, who coolly appraised them from across the room.
"You know, I brought him in here to punish you."
Was it really necessary to commit that fact to words?
"I think I may have also brought him in here so you could see a side-by-side comparison."
"You're an idiot. Every humiliation that's come at me for the last two weeks—dismantling everything we've built, ignoring serious stories so we can get down in the gutter with the Casey Anthony circus—and I've done it all while Brian's been standing over my shoulder because you put him there. Now, you pass on the debate because that guy insulted me? I don't know where your head is at at any given moment!" Hysteria was beginning to tinge her voice.
"Settle down," he soothed, barely containing a smile. "Let's do the news, Mac. Throw out the rundown and we'll just wing it."
Then, turning, he stabbed a finger at Brenner. "Just write the truth."
"We're throwing out the run-down," Mac announced, striding across the bullpen. One of her heels caught and she nearly stumbled, but caught herself. She looked back at Will, returned a hopeful smile, then continued across the room, giving orders to her crew.
Brenner, who had moved closer, tsk-ed with a rough laugh. "She's always had that—uh, certain in-bred clumsiness."
Will straightened and the good humor left his face.
"Got a minute, Brian? My office."
oooo
The wake for the debates—or, rather, the debates that were never to be—commenced a few hours later at the usual dive. Jim held court in the front corner of Hang Chew's, far away from where the recently-repaired karaoke machine enabled off-key renditions of "Up Where We Belong." Tess, Martin, Tamara, Joey, Neal, Maggie, and Gary sat in an uneven and dejected semi-circle around him, commiserating over pitchers of beer and watery mojitos.
Will, on the other hand, sat alone at the bar. He had greeted his staffers as he entered but made it obvious he wouldn't be joining them. His mourning was best done in private, attended only by a consoling pour of Maker's.
"Charlie's looking for you." Don leaned against the bar and caught the bar-keep's eye. "Another round," he said, indicating the group in the corner and throwing some bills on the counter. He used both hands to push back from the bar, but paused for a moment, selecting his words and aiming them at Will again. "You did the right thing—"
"Crashing our shot at the debates?"
"That, too. But what I meant was—that thing that you did that Charlie wants to talk to you about."
Will grunted and turned back to the drink that was having nowhere close to the desired effect on him.
"I don't know what started it, and I don't think any of us will much like the consequences, because, you know, the pen really is mightier than the sword—but if ever someone needed a recalibration on decent human behavior, it was Brenner." He let the sentence hang. "Just sayin'." Then, he left to rejoin the official mourners in the front corner of Hang Chew's Journalistic Funeral Parlor.
You stab 'em, we slab 'em.
Several more minutes passed in blissful, contemplative solitude before Sloan spied him and came over.
"I've got a problem, bro."
"Hmm?"
She inclined her head to a dark booth in the back.
"Mac and I were supposed to have a drink after show, but, you know—so she got here before me and—" She mimed drinking. "I'm trying to convince her it's time to call it a night, but I could use reinforcements."
Great. Mac shit-faced. This was a rare and, he knew, usually un-good performance.
He nodded and followed Sloan back over, sliding into the booth across from Mac.
"Hello there," she said, over-brightly. "Come to keep me company? I'll buy you a drink." She craned her head for the server.
"It looks like you've had enough already."
"I've been drinking my sorrows away."
"They should be gone by now," Will said, eying four empty glasses in formation in front of her.
She gave an exaggerated shake of her head. "Need one more."
"Okay" he played along. "But let's make it a nightcap at home."
He looked to Sloan. "How about you take care of preliminaries—" he indicated the ladies room with his head, "—and I'll settle the tab?"
Sloan and Mac went off to attend to matters. When they returned, Sloan asked, "Should I stay and help—make sure she gets home—"
"Nah. I've got it. You need a lift?"
"I'm going in the opposite direction. Uptown." She leaned nearer. "Late date. BlackRock."
oooo
Mac was mostly quiet on the cab ride home. Once in the door, however, she suddenly seemed drunker, so he led her immediately to the bathroom.
"Here," handing her a glass.
"What is it?"
"Water. It's like booze, but less filling."
She happily drank it, but as he reached for the bottle of Advil on the medicine cabinet shelf, she suddenly wrapped her arms around him from behind. Not simply for balance, either.
"I'm sososo sorry," she slurred. "My fault we lost the debate—"
"Mac, we covered this earlier. It was better to lose it than get it on those terms. Hey." He peeled her arms off and turned. "You need to—"
Impulsively, she kissed him, a tentative kiss that still seemed beyond mere gratitude for a ride home.
Gently, he pushed her back and looked into her slightly unfocused hazel eyes.
"You need to be serious now. It's been a tough week—we all have—"
"You brought him here to punish me because I ruined your life—"
"You didn't ruin my life. We're okay. Anyway, Brian won't be back."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?
"God help me, I didn't make the connection until tonight."
He was surprised to find he was still gripping her upper arms, so he released her. "It was the guy who came before me, right, not anyone who came after." He waited a few seconds. "Right?"
"There was no after," this last sentence almost sotto voce. "Even Wade was only a few dates. When Brian found out you and I had—parted ways, he came around, wanting to 'renew our relationship.'" Her voice was bitter. "He just wanted a quick roll in the sack and figured I'd be vulnerable and available. Again. I told him to go fuck himself—at least, that would be sex with someone he cared about."
"He put you in the fucking emergency room."
"It was worth it."
"Mac, how drunk are you?"
"How drunk do I need to be?"
"You aren't as drunk as you want me to think you are, I know that. So the question has to be, why do you want me to think you're drunk?"
"I can hold my liquor—"
"Your limit used to be more than one scotch." He looked down at her. "The bartender gabbed a bit while you and Sloan went to the ladies room—"
Her only overt reaction at having been discovered was a panicked dart of her eyes. She hesitated, obviously weighing her words. Then, with a sigh and a low voice, "I thought perhaps a different MacKenzie—same packaging, of course, you never seemed to object to that—but with the possibility of no complications, no consequences. Tomorrow, we could just pretend that it—"
"That, what, I had taken advantage of you while believing you were drunk?" He shook his head in mild disbelief. "But you're right about one thing. I've always liked the packaging." Pause. "Still crazy for the contents, too."
His words surprised her into silence and she pulled back slightly, bracing for the inevitable hurtful punchline.
"Anyway, Mac, I want you sober right now. I'm tired of blame and guilt and all that shit. I think the punitive phase of this trial is over. And I'd like—I very much want to start to talk about us in the present tense instead of the past."
"Maybe work our way up to a—future conditional?" she volleyed back lightly, thinking she ought to at least put it out there before this moment evaporated. As she was still certain it would.
He abruptly cut her off with a kiss of his own. Then, pulling back a few inches to study her, "Why didn't you tell me I was still in love with you?"
Suddenly reeling, as if now legitimately inebriated, she threw out a hand to the sink to steady herself. "Wait, Will—this is coming at me really fast, and I don't know if I—"
"After all this time, I don't think I can slow down, so try to—keep up. I need to get it all out." He stopped, perhaps to catch his breath, or perhaps to simply choose the right words. "For the last six years, I've never not loved you, never stopped, never paused. I didn't tell you and that's been a problem, and there have been other problems as well, but I've been trying to get there, trying to get where I could say it again. You are—perfect. Just wonderful. And you have allowed me and others to sometimes treat you in not-such-a-wonderful way." He brought his hand up to push back the perennial loose lock of hair, then slowly traced his thumb around her eye before moving to the tiny bump in the bridge of her nose.
"I'm not a victim," she protested. "Don't think of me that way."
"I think you're the strongest and the most resilient—and I think the only thing that has ever compromised you has been love." He took her hand and felt a tremor in it.
"Just a bit nervous right now," she admitted.
"Me, too." He leaned in to kiss her again, taking her response as signal to press nearer, fold her body into his arms. The kiss began slowly, tenderness mixed with caution and a sense of re-finding something important that had been lost, but grew urgent and needful, until the oxygen seemed to thin and they broke apart, light-headed at this unfamiliar altitude.
"Missed you," she confessed. "Missed this."
"MacKenzie. I think this is going to lead—somewhere. Are you okay with that?"
"And I thought I was the one propositioning you about five minutes ago—"
"Pretty sure male ego requires me to ignore that part right now."
Will reached over and extinguished the overhead light. As their eyes adjusted, the darkness gradually yielded to light spilling through the high window.
He brought first one arm up and then the other, undoing the cuff buttons of her blouse, exposing delicate, flat wrists. He fumbled briefly over the cloth buttons, eliciting an anxious giggle from her.
"Hey, how about giving me a break here?" he mock-growled. "I'm working to earn this." And he returned to slippery buttons and too-small button holes, finally sending the garment to the tiled floor and lightly kicking it to one side. He took a moment to admire her torso, even though still clad in a lacy beige bra, his eyes lingering on remembered knolls and valleys.
The ambient light lent a soft violet cast to her pale skin, fading to shadow down the camber of her flanks. The topography of scars was evident, too, but he chose to ignore the big mark (the one for which there would be much explanation later), and instead reverently trace the tiny pits on the inside of her right forearm, the silvery crescent on her shoulder, an exclamation mark of two inches length on her wrist. He didn't have to be told: random wounds, acquired perhaps from the shrapnel of an IED, perhaps from a fall on gravel when weighted down with camera equipment, perhaps simply the evidence of the roughness of life on the move through hostile areas.
His silent scrutiny began to make her feel awkward. "Should we—um, take this in the other room?" Mac whispered, feeling a slight flush at the inspection and anxious to move on to other, more pleasant activities.
"Not just yet," he hushed, leaning in to press small open-mouthed kisses up her neck. His lips gently teased her earlobe for a moment before refocusing on her mouth, sharing a tango canyengue. With her eyes closed and her body relaxed, his hands pressed gently but urgently on her, fully exploiting the fact that he had pinned her against the sink. He gently unzipped the pencil skirt and pushed it to the floor. Then, his hands separated, sliding up her back and parting the clasp of her bra. He brought one hand up to cradle her face as he pulled back from the kiss, wearing an expression of slight bemusement.
She let out a breathy gasp, increasing his smile.
He nuzzled the shell of her ear. "Was that a swoon?"
"Not yet, but you're on your way," she conceded, her breathing a bit ragged. "By the way, one of us has on way too many clothes."
"Very astute." Still, he made no motion to remove his own clothing, and when she reached for his belt, he playfully slapped her hand down. "Hey, I'm producing now."
He began tracing the muscles on her stomach up to the curve of her breasts. Her skin was warm and firm, and she shivered slightly as he circled on her breasts, lightly tugging at the dark nipples, giving one a small pinch.
Please don't let this be some elaborate ruse—
He continued to caress her breast with the calloused fingertips of his left hand, his fretting hand, while allowing the other hand to slide slowly down to grip her ass. His thumb softly slid under and around the elastic of her panties, tracing lazily along the leg band before commencing a leisurely trek to the juncture of her legs.
Her breaths were becoming heavier and finally she looked at him with question in her eyes.
He positioned her so that she faced the mirror and he stood behind her, one arm loosely draped across her chest, the other engaged in southerly explorations.
"That isn't a mirror. It's a window—I want you to see what I see."
His flat chest and stomach pressed to her back, comforting in their hardness, and his own arousal was becoming patently obvious by the hard knot in his jeans. He slid his hand along the soft flesh of her thigh, gently pulling apart her petals. Using three fingers, he pressured the nerves at her core with broad experimental strokes, re-learning the effects he could provoke. He found her clit, languidly circling, inciting delicious sensation and making her squirm with pleasure, expectation, frustration. She began a slow, almost unconscious undulation of her hips, chasing his touch. When he applied direct pressure, she gave a low sigh and closed her eyes.
"MacKenzie," he reminded softly, and she dragged her eyes back to the mirror.
She was wet, very wet, which he took as encouragement. He pushed a finger into her, curling it and stroking her on the inside. She moaned softly, a gentle exhale, and soon began to push against his hand, making occasional jerks as he found a good spot.
He watched her reflection in the mirror and watched her watching him, infinite regression in finite view.
Her breathing grew irregular and the involuntary responsive thrust of her hips became more pronounced.
He stopped and moved his hand back a few inches, eliciting a sharp cry.
"Watch," he said again. "See what I see."
Even in the quasi-darkness, her expression was soft and pleading. He returned to a gentle kneading motion, leading her thrusts until she was finally pushed to overload.
"Will—" she sputtered, uncertain whether it was simply his name or a prayer by this point, "Oh—oh—I'm there, that's it—that's—" Drowning in sensation, spiraling down, then fighting to surface, rising, breaking.
Her head lolled to one side and she sagged against his chest, eyes fluttering closed, then open again. Meeting his in the mirror, hers now seemed slightly glazed. Will rocked back, one arm locking her to him and supporting her. When he could tell that she was starting to come down, he pressed a kiss to her hair.
"Good?"
When had he become the master of comic understatement?
She made a wordless sound of approbation, then followed up with a contented exhalation. "Good," she finally affirmed, although it seemed a redundancy.
"You know, I'm thinking Act Two is gonna require a bed."
"Got one," she replied pithily. "Any other accessories?"
"Well. You're lucky I'm around."