The Unresolved Seventh
A/N: This is more of a sequel than a real chapter 2 to Fugue, because so many people seemed to want a bit more. Still very AU. All rights to characters belong to Aaron Sorkin and HBO.
This was the dissonant note. This was what in music is called the unresolved seventh, as when the dominant chord does not resolve logically downward to the next step of the scale. Even the musically untrained ear notices the dissonance, the absence of resolution.
Tuesday
"Billy—no." She looked so sad.
"You're saying no?"
"I don't want to t-tie you to this if something happens."
"That's sort of the point of marriage, isn't it?" he said. "To be tied to someone—in sickness and in health?" He pushed the ring a little closer. "I don't get it. It's exactly why you need to say yes."
But Mackenzie was determined not to waver on this point. "I'm just asking to d-defer it. Let's wait until after—"
After. After the surgery, she meant.
"I love you. Don't doubt that, Billy."
He definitely looked as though he did.
"Billy—" she touched his face. "I love you. And once this is behind us, if you still want to—"
"Am I allowed to come to the hospital?" he asked shortly and with a tinge of bitterness. "Or were you thinking you'd just creep off alone to some elephant graveyard?"
She was running again, but this time he wasn't the reason.
This time, he was just collateral damage.
She looked askance, then down in defeat. "I'm sorry. I'm s-so sorry, Billy."
oooo
Two weeks earlier…
There had been symptoms, minor at first but escalating. An increasing severity of the headaches, when it felt like a brain freeze that went on for hours.
But what had really convinced her of the necessity was the seizure in Control during the show one night, an event that mortified her and terrified the staff.
She had gone quickly and docilely to the doctor following the seizure. Will had gone with her, determined to learn what she had tried to underplay. He was alarmed beyond his capacity to speak it. They had been seeing each other again for about six months and it was better than it had ever been. She was still bright and funny and beautiful, and he was as completely gone about her as before. Occasionally, he would glimpse a remoteness in her, a seeming shadow that he attributed to sadness, even unremembered sadness, from her time embedded.
Of course, her memory was still MIA. Or perhaps that was KIA, since it was impossible to be recovered. What she had instead of memory was a halting way with consonants, increasingly severe headaches, and now a tremor in the fingers of her right hand.
It wasn't an even trade, but perhaps it had been a fair one. A merciful one, anyway.
Tests. More tests. Preliminary diagnosis. Referral. A refined diagnosis. Opinions. Options. Recommendations. Another referral.
Will drank coffee and read emails on his phone during the latest CT scan and MRI. When the battery of tests was finished, he took her to lunch, and then they returned in the afternoon, to speak with the neurologist.
Dr. Samson bade them be seated before forcing a tentative smile.
"I know this is an anxious time, so let me begin by encouraging you to stop me at any time and ask questions." He moved the computer mouse and brought an image to the screen on his desk, rolling the cursor over a gray area. "This is the area of concern. It appears to be a small lesion, probably connected to your head injury. As I'm sure your doctor told you at the time of the original injury, it is always preferable to take a wait-and-see approach to brain injuries. Sometimes problems don't manifest themselves until years later."
"Is that the case here?" Will asked.
"I'm afraid so." The doctor turned to look at Mac, who looked attentive but emotionally blank. "The seizure you experienced last week indicates something has changed. Your intracranial pressure is elevated. My experience tells me this won't simply go away on its own, but that you will continue to have these episodes, on a greater or lesser scale. Perhaps additional symptoms as well."
Her fingers tightened on Will's hand.
Will swallowed. "How do we—" he began.
"Surgery is an option. It's probably your best option for long term relief of the symptoms." He gestured with his hands and gave a wan smile. "I'm a surgeon, so of course I advocate for surgery. It poses significant risks, however, so I also want you to talk to someone about alternatives. I'll give you some names." He looked up guardedly. "Your insurance—"
"No problem there," Will dismissed, thinking that such matters shouldn't have to be considered right now.
Will's terse response registered with the doctor. "Of course," he nodded. "There aren't many nonsurgical protocols. Radiation, but that brings a host of other issues. There are some experimental medications, but the efficacy is spotty—they work with some patients, not with others. They also tend to be incredibly expensive and not typically covered by insurers." He scribbled names and phone numbers on a prescription pad and slid the sheet across the desk. "Talk to either of these doctors. They're at the forefront of new nonsurgical approaches."
"And if we opt for surgery?"
Dr. Samson addressed his response to Mac, who had finally posed a question of her own. "Don't delay. Sooner is better. The success rate, and by that I mean both relief from the symptoms and curtailment of episodes such as you've had, is quite good. The problem, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you, is that the surgeon may have to go through normal brain tissue in order to reach the lesion. So there's always the risk of injuring otherwise healthy tissue—"
"—M-making things worse," she finished.
"It's possible."
"A calculated risk." Mackenzie looked to Will then back to the doctor.
Will picked up the discussion again once they were in the cab and headed back to work.
"Mac, you're being reckless." Yet again. "Just talk to another doctor. It doesn't hurt to talk. Find out. Then make your decision."
"I've m-made it."
"It's dangerous. You need to consider the consequences—"
"Of w-winding up worse?" she squeezed her eyes closed and exhaled heavily. "You d-don't understand, Will. There is something inside here—" she placed her fingers on either side of her forehead, "and I have to get it out."
His lips tightly compressed, he looked out the window. "I don't want to lose you."
"Billy," she smiled and pushed her head against his shoulder. "You heard Dr. Samson say I was an excellent c-candidate—good prognosis—"
"I also heard him say, 'significant risks,'" Will grumbled in return.
She pulled back, realization dawning. "You're afraid I'll f-forget you again. That's it, isn't it?"
"I'm more concerned about death, paralysis, and cognitive impairment, in that order," he returned. "Of course, I want you to remember me. And all the people you know and work with. News Night. Reese Lansing. The Aryan overlord who sells the bagels you like." He took a deep breath. "What I want is Mackenzie Uninterrupted. I want you whole, I want you safe, I want you happy, I want this episode in our rear view mirror as quickly as possible." He paused again. "Throw me a bone here, will you?"
She laughed at his recitation and pressed back into his arms. "We're going to be f-fine, Billy. I even promise to work on remembering Reese and the d-dark lord of the bagels."
But there had been another seizure the following day at her apartment. Sloan had redirected her unanswered calls to the doorman who found Mac on the kitchen floor. She was conscious again by the time EMTs arrived, but the decision was now not only obvious but urgent.
oooo
Same Tuesday
"I thought you'd be out celebrating—" Charlie began, entering Will's office. He stopped when he saw the other man's expression. Then his eyes drifted to the open velvet box in front of Will, a perfectly ostentatious ring still in residence. "What happened?"
"She said no."
"She said no?" The eyebrows shot up. This wasn't possible. "Why would she say no? To that rock? To you, after all this time? What the fuck?"
Will was glowering by the time Charlie paused. "She said no. That's it." He snapped the lid closed and dropped the box into his top right drawer.
Charlie sagged against the wall. "I'll be damned. I thought that whatever it was between you two could be exhumed and fixed. I thought it was just a matter of putting you together again. I never thought—that she'd say no." He was quiet for a bit. "I'm so sorry, son."
"She's worried about the surgery. Doesn't want—" Will's voice hardened. "She wants to do this all alone, she doesn't want entanglements. Reckless. She's always been fucking fearless."
"She's thinking of you—"
"She doesn't let me in, Charlie. Not since she came back. She has layers and facades and you think you're getting to the real Mackenzie but there's someone else there."
oooo
Mac went to her office from the studio. It was still hers for the night, even though a piece of paper reading James Harper, Executive Producer was now taped over the plaque with her name outside the door. He would be carrying the show beginning tonight. She had petitioned Charlie for the promotion, and he had acquiesced, calling it provisional, until her return from medical convalescence. She didn't argue with him, but she knew full well it might be a permanent assignment.
After all, Jim was more than capable. He'd understudied her for three years in the field, one year here. The only concern would be whether he could corral and harness Will to the correct form of News Night.
She wasn't sure she would be coming back to News Night again. Even if things went well tomorrow, she was unsure of Will's reaction. Would he allow her back?
"Will asked you to marry him and you told him no?" Jim stood in the door, hands on his hips, shaking his head in anger. "I mean, what the heck, Mac?"
"How did you—?"
"He didn't tell me, if that's what you mean." Jim ripped the headset off his head and tossed it on the desk. "But the next time someone proposes to you in the studio, remind them to kill the shotgun mic on camera one."
She closed her eyes. "P-please tell me all of Control didn't—"
"Can't tell you that. But I wanted to be the first one in here, before Sloan gets it from Kendra or Tamara and charges in." He folded his arms and tried to maintain his glare, but anger was a difficult pose for him. Especially when the target was Mac.
"Mac, you can't turn people on and off like light switches. You can't want someone to love you and then hold them at arm's length."
"You're giving advice to the l-lovelorn now?"
"I'm giving advice to someone I respect who's just screwed up pretty badly. Will's erased all the reservations I initially held about him. He wants to go through this with you. I know you love him—jeeze, we all heard it ad nauseum in five different time zones."
"But there's a chance something could go wrong. I d-don't want to—"
"Yeah, yeah." He waved his hand impatiently. "I heard your rationale, remember? And it just doesn't fly. He didn't buy it. I don't buy it." He considered and added, "You may have convinced Joey, but I think that's just because he's younger and more naïve."
She missed the attempt at humor. Her mind was racing. She had believed she was doing the right thing. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Will or do something irreversible to their new relationship. But she didn't want him handcuffed to her by legality—by honor—by misguided loyalty—if there were complications...
Was she wrong?
"Mac, you've got twelve hours before you go to the hospital so this has to be fixed tonight. If you want me to, I'll help."
oooo
Will was uncharacteristically subdued during the B block interview with House Majority Leader Eric Cantor about the ramifications of the Stock Legislation on House members. He stumbled through the C block segment updating the Syrian situation, once losing his train of thought entirely and having to rely on the 'prompter. Despite usually regarding the teleprompter as a crutch, he was relieved that it was available tonight. As long as he could read, he could limp through the broadcast.
Only 30 seconds in F block and the wrap-up remained.
In Control, Herb counted down off-mic and turned to Jim. "And—D.C. has it." Capitol Report with Terry Smith began rolling on the bottom left monitor.
"Okay." Jim toggled his mic. "Will, we've lost the 'prompter." He nodded at Joey to confirm he'd stopped it.
Shit. Will shuffled the papers in front of him.
"You'll have to vamp."
"Copy." Annoyance and frustration were plain in Will's voice. First night Mac's gone and there's already a major fuck up.
"Will, I've been thinking about what you said to me earlier—"
Simultaneously on three of the monitors in Control, Will's eyes widened at the sound of Mac's voice in his ear.
"Mac? What the fuck is going on?"
"Back in fifteen—" Herb prompted, maintaining the fiction of live air.
"Ready, Joey?" Jim asked. Wordsworth on the 'prompter—Will was gonna have a fit. At the nod he got in response, he added, "Okay, let's roll it."
The teleprompter began scrolling again, fixing Will with the words on it.
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes.
Wild eyes accurately summed up Will's reaction.
"Jim—Mac—whoever's in there—what the—"
Grinning, Herb counted down to a totally fictitious return from break. "Ten, nine—"
"Yes. I'm saying yes."
Mac handed her headset to Jim. "I really have to get in there now—"
Jim gave her a quick hug. "I killed the shotgun mic. Good luck with the brain transplant tomorrow. I'll be around with macramé and Twizzlers around noon," he yelled after her.
She passed Sloan in the corridor outside Control, pausing to return the latter's fist bump, before continuing into the studio, past the cameras, to the desk, where Will had started to rise, beginning to suspect he was being made the butt of an elaborate joke. She grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the cameras, to a dark corner opposite.
She checked the toggle on his mic pack, to make sure it was off.
"Seriously?" he started.
"Seriously," she affirmed. "I'm saying yes."
oooo
Two days later
Gary Cooper walked into Room 435 as directed by the nurse's station. The arm with the bouquet dropped to his side. "Who bought the florist's shop?"
Flowers lined the ledge under the window. Carnations lodged on the side table, sprays of daisies and peonies and irises brightened the floor space between two chairs of fixed girth and improbable Naugahyde antecedents.
Will was in one of the chairs, feet propped upon the end of the hospital bed. His whole posture suggested permanence to his presence. Maggie and Tess were supporting the walls on either side of the air conditioning unit under the window, and Sloan lounged in the other chair, making pronouncements from her Blackberry.
"Piers Morgan. Ann Curry. Jon Stewart. Diane Sawyer. Matt Lauer." She bolted upright. "You ever see him without a shirt on?"
From the bed Mac laughed. "I haven't."
"Not bad," Sloan adjudged.
"Wait a minute," Will began. "Matt Lauer sent a shirtless photo with a message for Mac?"
"No. I was on a different web site by then." Sloan looked up hopefully. "But still, you know. Not bad."
Tess took Gary's flowers and positioned them near a particularly grandiose spray of flowers with a card identifying it as from the Lansings.
He approached the bed. "Okay to kiss hello?"
Mac returned a small smile. "Not contagious. Unless you want scary bed hair."
Gary gave a quick buss to her cheek. "I'll pass on the hair thing." He rubbed his own. "So—? I mean, I expected brain surgery to look a little more complicated."
"It is, from the other perspective." Mac pushed back a curtain of hair and pointed to the large square of gauze taped to her scalp.
"She's just pleading for sympathy," Will snarked. "As soon as I can wean her off the Jello, we are out of here."
"Any serious answers around here today?" Gary asked.
"The lesion was what they call focal—confined to a specific location—and extra axial, which means within the skull but outside the brain." Maggie was repeating this from rote now, having given the same report to Charlie, to Elliot, to Reese's representative, and to someone she mistook for ACN's HR department. [It was actually just a former Newsweek journalist with a blog.] "She passed the preliminary neurological tests and seems to be on the glide slope to full recovery."
"Hey, Mac, glad to hear that. Be glad to get you back—do we know how long—?"
"No rushing the patient," Will reproved from his reclined position, fingers still poised over his Blackberry. "If you and Jim can't handle Jane, just say so."
"Well, Jane's a—she's a goddam prima donna. And Jim's on his way up right now, so I'll let him give you the details." Gary went back and squeezed Mac's hand, the one without an IV. "Just wanted to check in and say hello." He looked up at Maggie and Tess, twin seraphs on the air conditioning unit. "Keep us posted."
A few minutes later, Jim strolled in. "I brought more Twizzlers."
"I don't get it—what's up with the Twizzlers?" Sloan frowned.
"An embed joke," Mac said. "If someone wanted a sweet, it had to be something that wouldn't melt. Chocolate was out. Then, somehow, this disgusting red ropey stuff evolved into shorthand for 'get well soon.'"
"Must not be too disgusting. I notice the supply has been depleted," Jim said.
"That's more of a commentary on the economics of hungry staffers visiting, not an endorsement for Twizzlers," Will said.
"Feeling better today?" Jim asked.
"Just tired," Mac allowed. "They poked and prodded me every two hours last night. CT scan in the wee hours of the morning—"
"There was no waiting," Will noted.
"Well, you look good."
She smiled in gratitude for the fib. "You brought your guitar?"
"I thought Will might find a use for it this afternoon, when I have to herd everyone back to work." He eyed Tess and Maggie; Sloan returned a defiant glare. "Yes, Jane Barrow is our cross to bear. For a little while."
Will took the instrument and strummed once. "In tune. For a change."
"Well, I'm sure there's some three chord song that won't tax your abilities," Jim shot back with a grin. "How about 'Moondance.'"
"The Van Morrison song? That's a four chord song."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
Jim thought a moment. "Yeah, you're right. Forgot the E major seventh."
"Okay, one song, then I'm sending all of you on your way."