fic: buffering
buffering
the newsroom, mackenzie/wade, pg-13
there’s an art, to this television business
leave, lose the election,
go to hell.
Call it a knack, but she’s getting used to them coming crawling back.
“I’m sorry.” He says, with flowers too. A dozen roses in her favourite hue.
It’s a start, she thinks, lets her phone run to voicemail.
Mac. I-
The noisy crackle of static and the clunk of a receiver, like something from a teen movie.
He catches her in Starbucks, of all places. “We’ve had fights before- “ he starts, and she can tell that it’s rehearsed.
“Save it.”
“Hear me out!”
“God,” the coffee burns her tongue, “Have you heard yourself?”
Will’s blustering and blundering, when she reaches the newsroom. “Do we have to do this now?” She sighs, lets the ensuing speech wash over her.
It’s a little early for a drink.
Wade comes to the office. Of course he does. “You’re hiding from me.”
She scoffs, best she can. There’s an art, to this television business, and she calls it acting. “I don’t hide from anything.”
“Bull. Shit.”
Some people call it that as well.
“One drink.” She relents, finally, her pick of downtown bar.
The most expensive, of course.
“Thank you,” Wade says, “for this.” He gropes across the table, vaguely in search of a hand but finds nothing but her bag.
Her hands remain folded in her lap, save for when one snakes up to lift her glass. Times like this she wishes it was acceptable to drink through a straw.
Someone once told her it gets you drunk quicker, to boot.
She gets drunk quickly enough as it is, and she’s giggling when she’s drained the second glass. “You’re witty.” She says, means it only as half a compliment.
Trouble is, it comes out whole.
“And you,” he grins, “cannot hold your drink.”
“It’s endearing.” She shoots back.
His hand is under the table now, enveloping her knee. “Is that so?”
She takes him home.
Call it pity. Or just a blatant lack of self control.
He’s gone before she wakes up, a flower plucked from the bouquet and placed on the pillow. It’s a nice touch, perhaps, but she can’t help but think it’s just so awfully bright against the stark white linen.
And this, children, is what you call a hangover.
She texts him, you left your tie. and your keys.
“Did you plan this?” She asks, when he comes to pick it up. It’s supposed to sound casual, but of course, it is nothing but accusing.
He grins. “What do you think?” Crosses the room to kiss her.
It’s dizzying, for a second. She smiles. “I don’t think that’s really an answer.”
“It’ll have to do for now.”
end.
the newsroom, mackenzie/wade, pg-13
there’s an art, to this television business
leave, lose the election,
go to hell.
Call it a knack, but she’s getting used to them coming crawling back.
“I’m sorry.” He says, with flowers too. A dozen roses in her favourite hue.
It’s a start, she thinks, lets her phone run to voicemail.
Mac. I-
The noisy crackle of static and the clunk of a receiver, like something from a teen movie.
He catches her in Starbucks, of all places. “We’ve had fights before- “ he starts, and she can tell that it’s rehearsed.
“Save it.”
“Hear me out!”
“God,” the coffee burns her tongue, “Have you heard yourself?”
Will’s blustering and blundering, when she reaches the newsroom. “Do we have to do this now?” She sighs, lets the ensuing speech wash over her.
It’s a little early for a drink.
Wade comes to the office. Of course he does. “You’re hiding from me.”
She scoffs, best she can. There’s an art, to this television business, and she calls it acting. “I don’t hide from anything.”
“Bull. Shit.”
Some people call it that as well.
“One drink.” She relents, finally, her pick of downtown bar.
The most expensive, of course.
“Thank you,” Wade says, “for this.” He gropes across the table, vaguely in search of a hand but finds nothing but her bag.
Her hands remain folded in her lap, save for when one snakes up to lift her glass. Times like this she wishes it was acceptable to drink through a straw.
Someone once told her it gets you drunk quicker, to boot.
She gets drunk quickly enough as it is, and she’s giggling when she’s drained the second glass. “You’re witty.” She says, means it only as half a compliment.
Trouble is, it comes out whole.
“And you,” he grins, “cannot hold your drink.”
“It’s endearing.” She shoots back.
His hand is under the table now, enveloping her knee. “Is that so?”
She takes him home.
Call it pity. Or just a blatant lack of self control.
He’s gone before she wakes up, a flower plucked from the bouquet and placed on the pillow. It’s a nice touch, perhaps, but she can’t help but think it’s just so awfully bright against the stark white linen.
And this, children, is what you call a hangover.
She texts him, you left your tie. and your keys.
“Did you plan this?” She asks, when he comes to pick it up. It’s supposed to sound casual, but of course, it is nothing but accusing.
He grins. “What do you think?” Crosses the room to kiss her.
It’s dizzying, for a second. She smiles. “I don’t think that’s really an answer.”
“It’ll have to do for now.”
end.