A/N: One of the bad times during that five-year gap for Mackenzie and Scott. Because there was a good chunk of time when Scott found himself at the bottom of a glass of vodka most nights. Not exactly sure when I'm setting this to be sure, but it's during the time gap. Enjoy xx Mariah

"I'm not giving up, Mackenzie," Scott said to himself, the words blurring together a bit. "I'm not giving up on you, I'm not giving up on us, I'm not giving up."

He stared at the half-empty bottle—the tenth in a week. This was where Scott found himself most nights—at the bottom of a glass of vodka. Everything was warmer when there was alcohol running through his veins; everything was brighter and softer and happier. With a drink in his hand, he could pretend everything was as it should be. No, he could believe, and he did believe.

He believed in a woman named Mackenzie, that one day he would be with her like he was supposed to. Everyone had a place, had a home.

And his? His place was currently on his couch, holding the bottle and glass.

He wished his place could coming back from work to their little house and finding her, asleep after a long shift at the hospital. His place should be giving her a kiss on the cheek and lying in bed with her, feeling her curl into him, and settle her hand on his stomach. His place could be giving her the puppy eyes he knew she didn't like to resist, but she was also a lot stronger than she looked, and his place had always been knowing (and admiring) that. His place was delighting in her stubbornness (and cursing it) as she always left him with a tiny, pleased grin tugging at her cheeks.

He wished he could turn SportsCenter on in bed with her. He'd imagine she'd sleep for a bit before she truly realized he was home. He'd sneak looks at her from the corner of his eye, loving the way she should curve into him, her face relaxed. How was it he could imagine being with her so clearly but it hadn't ever happened?

His place had always been forgetting he's supposed to keep his glances short and stealth. His place was then trying to change his face from one of love to one of innocence.

"You were watching me," she should be saying, picking her head up and resting it on an elbow on the pillow.

"What? No. What? I wasn't." He'd try and pull it over her head, but she lay back and smile at him. Her hair would be flowing over her shoulders, the thick blonde hair he's always wanted to just press his face into forever. She'd always smelled like gardenia.

"You were," she'd giggle, sliding back against him.

They'd leave it at that until she caught him again, studying the graceful length of her nose and marveling at it.

"You're doing it again." She'd whisper.

His place was snapping his eyes up to the television. "No, I wasn't doing anything. I was watching—"

"You can't lie to me, Scotty." She'd try to sound serious, but she'd break her gruffness with a sunny grin at his nickname and he'd hope she'd move her fingers through his hair. "You've never been able to."

His place was staring at her and saying, knowing without a doubt that she'd repeat his words back to him, "I love you."

And her grin should still be there, deepening into a fiercely happy thing. "I love you too, Scott, so much."

He should be hugging her closer, and they should be lying, pressed into each other for several minutes, several beautiful, silent, still minutes. He'd eventually kiss her, for a few soft blissful moments, but his place was curling up beside her under the sheets, her body warm against his, watching her fall asleep in the dark, and wrapped safe in the knowledge that tomorrow he'd have another beautiful day just like this one, and a beautiful woman to share it with.

Except that wasn't what his days were like. They were drinking at night and dreaming about Mackenzie, eating a stale bagel with coffee in the morning and dreaming about Mackenzie, going to work and dreaming about Mackenzie, driving with Ned, and talking about sports, but wishing he could still ask about Mackenzie. Because, surely, if you dream, if you hope, if you wish and pray hard enough, you will be answered. Rewarded. You will find your place, your home, your heaven. And all will be as it should.

At this moment, his place was drowning himself in liquor. But outside of fleeting moments, of impermanent thoughts and actions, of flimsy words and fading snapshots of life, his place—his heaven—was with Mackenzie and hers with him.

And so he tipped back the now empty bottle and the weight made his arms ache, waiting for the last drops to slide into his mouth.

He would find his place.