fic: trailblazers
Uhh so this happened? Part II is coming shortly, against my better judgement.
TRAILBLAZERS: part i, the wanderlust fund.
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, pg-13.
jazz age au - she likes manhattan's best, martini's after that - vodka not gin, that's how she knows she's an american at heart.
people disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.
the great gatsby; f scott fitzgerald
PART ONE: THE WANDERLUST FUND.
There is a party in New York, 1927. And of course, October 1929 will happen, and by then Will McAvoy will be able to tell you: we cannot forgive and forget.
For now, there is a party.
'You're not from around these parts, are you?' He says. The air is thick with the smoke of his cigarette and the vapour of her Manhattan: perfect, just like she.
'Not everyone in New York's a New Yorker anymore, Mr McAvoy.'
Her accent is clear and crisp, but it falters when he leans closer. 'You know my name?'
'I'm a journalist,' she says, after a beat, 'I know everybody's name.'
Recognition fires: 'Mac McHale?'
And she finally smiles, 'The one and only.'
Let us not get too hasty: Will McAvoy is a journalist too, laisez faire! he screams from the masthead. She smiles wry and says, 'It will all end in tears, you know. Nothing lasts forever.'
'Didn't have you pegged as a killjoy.'
'Really?'
'No. You're far too beautiful to be miserable.' She laughs with a shake of the head and his hand grazes her waist through the beaded silk of her dress.
She quirks an eyebrow, turns her gaze to the rest of the party, 'I thought all beautiful women were miserable?'
'Don't believe everything you read.'
'Oh, I don't. I read your paper.'
He smokes too much and they both drink more than they should but this will not be what kills them. No, he is certain now: Mackenzie McHale will be the death of him.
He takes her to dinner, some Downtown speakeasy gone upmarket. The conversation passes easily in the low gaslight, but her brow furrows when talk turns to politics. 'You're a marxist?' He says.
She snorts. 'I'm a democrat, if that's what you're trying to say.'
'Aren't they the same thing?'
She takes a long drag from her cigarette. 'Charlie Skinner's offered me a job.'
'Charlie thinks Mac McHale's a guy.'
Her head cocks, 'Now I think about it,' she says, 'He did seem surprised to see me.'
His apartment's big and empty, a passing nod to fashion, perhaps, but mainly it's just that there's nothing to fill it with. The only thing that's full is his liquor cabinet, 'Are you protecting your sources by keeping them in business?'
Mackenzie drapes herself across his balcony, her gaze fixed on the statue looming in the distance. He studies her; the curve of her arms across the railings, the subtle swell of her chest as it rises and falls, the way the wind billows in the silk of her dress.
He teases her life out of her. Daughter of the British Ambassador, she holds not one passport but two: the eagle and the crest of windsor. New York, Cheltenham, Oxford, New York. She likes Manhattan's best, Martini's after that - vodka not gin, that's how she knows she's an American at heart. She lost a cousin in the war, it seems everyone else she knew was too young or too old or too female. Or perhaps she just never heard. In principle she's against prohibition, but drinking's just so much more fun when you know you're breaking the law, and there are still plenty of parties. She gestures down to the city, now, as if to say, see! and he chuckles.
Her head snaps around, finds him a fraction closer than she was expecting. ‘Are you laughing at me, Will?’
‘Only a little.’
It’s a reflex, really, when he kisses her. His arms are tight around her and she doesn’t taste like the other girls in New York City, no, her mouth has a sharp edge to it of smoke and bootlegged bourbon.
She holds his gaze steady when he pulls back, her eyes twinkling with amusement as her smile breaks into a laugh. ‘Walk me home?’
The Lancing’s host a party, the Sunday before she starts. He doesn’t really want to be there and judging by the liquor he’s knocking back neither does Charlie.
‘You knew Mac McHale was a girl!’
His features lift with amusement, ‘Charlie, everyone this side of the Hudson knows Mackenzie’s a lady.’
‘Are you two talking about me?’ A voice to his left, a ghost of fingers across his shoulder. Her lips graze Charlie’s cheek in greeting, then his for a fraction longer. Charlie raises an eyebrow, and Mackenzie pretends not to notice, ‘Is there any good gossip about me I should know?’
His hand flutters around her waist and settles on her back. ‘Have you met Reese and Leona?’
‘I was rather hoping that I wouldn’t have to.’
1928 comes calling and we might as well make it official: they are dating.
‘Oh you two make such a dashing couple. I suppose you’re in the newspapers every day.’ Zelda Fitzgerald will coo, her smile too big and toothy. The Fitzgerald’s are back in New York for spring, because the parties are better here and he supposes it’s harder to irritate him from the Riviera.
Mackenzie cocks her head, ‘We write the newspapers.’
Monday’s long and Monday’s hard. There’s a bombing against Mussolini and all he can muster is a roll of his eyes. She wears slacks to work and he doesn’t know why it surprises him when her knuckles skittle across his office door, ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I always want to see you.’ He says, watches her bite back the smile. His thumb brushes her cheek, ‘You have ink on you.’
‘Occupational hazard.’ Her hands settle on her hips and her eyes dip, ‘I have a paper to put to bed, Will, what did you want?’
‘There’s a guy downstairs asking for you. Brian Brenner.’
There’s a dive bar a block from the office, Hang Chew’s in its latest incarnation. She orders a Manhattan, he a scotch and there’s nothing new to see here. ‘Do you drink anything worth drinking?’ She asks, littering his jaw with kisses.
He pulls a shrug, ‘Takes all the fun out of it.’
Her laugh echoes low, ‘Well isn’t that romantic?’
My Darling Mackenzie, the letter slips in his fingers, Yours Always, Brian Brenner.
He hears her heels click on the marble. It takes a moment for her eyes to settle on his hand.
'I'm so sorry, Will.'
Well, you know what happens next, call it fate if you want: it is October, 1929.
The party's over. Everyone go home.
end of part i
TRAILBLAZERS: part i, the wanderlust fund.
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, pg-13.
jazz age au - she likes manhattan's best, martini's after that - vodka not gin, that's how she knows she's an american at heart.
people disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.
the great gatsby; f scott fitzgerald
PART ONE: THE WANDERLUST FUND.
There is a party in New York, 1927. And of course, October 1929 will happen, and by then Will McAvoy will be able to tell you: we cannot forgive and forget.
For now, there is a party.
'You're not from around these parts, are you?' He says. The air is thick with the smoke of his cigarette and the vapour of her Manhattan: perfect, just like she.
'Not everyone in New York's a New Yorker anymore, Mr McAvoy.'
Her accent is clear and crisp, but it falters when he leans closer. 'You know my name?'
'I'm a journalist,' she says, after a beat, 'I know everybody's name.'
Recognition fires: 'Mac McHale?'
And she finally smiles, 'The one and only.'
Let us not get too hasty: Will McAvoy is a journalist too, laisez faire! he screams from the masthead. She smiles wry and says, 'It will all end in tears, you know. Nothing lasts forever.'
'Didn't have you pegged as a killjoy.'
'Really?'
'No. You're far too beautiful to be miserable.' She laughs with a shake of the head and his hand grazes her waist through the beaded silk of her dress.
She quirks an eyebrow, turns her gaze to the rest of the party, 'I thought all beautiful women were miserable?'
'Don't believe everything you read.'
'Oh, I don't. I read your paper.'
He smokes too much and they both drink more than they should but this will not be what kills them. No, he is certain now: Mackenzie McHale will be the death of him.
He takes her to dinner, some Downtown speakeasy gone upmarket. The conversation passes easily in the low gaslight, but her brow furrows when talk turns to politics. 'You're a marxist?' He says.
She snorts. 'I'm a democrat, if that's what you're trying to say.'
'Aren't they the same thing?'
She takes a long drag from her cigarette. 'Charlie Skinner's offered me a job.'
'Charlie thinks Mac McHale's a guy.'
Her head cocks, 'Now I think about it,' she says, 'He did seem surprised to see me.'
His apartment's big and empty, a passing nod to fashion, perhaps, but mainly it's just that there's nothing to fill it with. The only thing that's full is his liquor cabinet, 'Are you protecting your sources by keeping them in business?'
Mackenzie drapes herself across his balcony, her gaze fixed on the statue looming in the distance. He studies her; the curve of her arms across the railings, the subtle swell of her chest as it rises and falls, the way the wind billows in the silk of her dress.
He teases her life out of her. Daughter of the British Ambassador, she holds not one passport but two: the eagle and the crest of windsor. New York, Cheltenham, Oxford, New York. She likes Manhattan's best, Martini's after that - vodka not gin, that's how she knows she's an American at heart. She lost a cousin in the war, it seems everyone else she knew was too young or too old or too female. Or perhaps she just never heard. In principle she's against prohibition, but drinking's just so much more fun when you know you're breaking the law, and there are still plenty of parties. She gestures down to the city, now, as if to say, see! and he chuckles.
Her head snaps around, finds him a fraction closer than she was expecting. ‘Are you laughing at me, Will?’
‘Only a little.’
It’s a reflex, really, when he kisses her. His arms are tight around her and she doesn’t taste like the other girls in New York City, no, her mouth has a sharp edge to it of smoke and bootlegged bourbon.
She holds his gaze steady when he pulls back, her eyes twinkling with amusement as her smile breaks into a laugh. ‘Walk me home?’
The Lancing’s host a party, the Sunday before she starts. He doesn’t really want to be there and judging by the liquor he’s knocking back neither does Charlie.
‘You knew Mac McHale was a girl!’
His features lift with amusement, ‘Charlie, everyone this side of the Hudson knows Mackenzie’s a lady.’
‘Are you two talking about me?’ A voice to his left, a ghost of fingers across his shoulder. Her lips graze Charlie’s cheek in greeting, then his for a fraction longer. Charlie raises an eyebrow, and Mackenzie pretends not to notice, ‘Is there any good gossip about me I should know?’
His hand flutters around her waist and settles on her back. ‘Have you met Reese and Leona?’
‘I was rather hoping that I wouldn’t have to.’
1928 comes calling and we might as well make it official: they are dating.
‘Oh you two make such a dashing couple. I suppose you’re in the newspapers every day.’ Zelda Fitzgerald will coo, her smile too big and toothy. The Fitzgerald’s are back in New York for spring, because the parties are better here and he supposes it’s harder to irritate him from the Riviera.
Mackenzie cocks her head, ‘We write the newspapers.’
Monday’s long and Monday’s hard. There’s a bombing against Mussolini and all he can muster is a roll of his eyes. She wears slacks to work and he doesn’t know why it surprises him when her knuckles skittle across his office door, ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I always want to see you.’ He says, watches her bite back the smile. His thumb brushes her cheek, ‘You have ink on you.’
‘Occupational hazard.’ Her hands settle on her hips and her eyes dip, ‘I have a paper to put to bed, Will, what did you want?’
‘There’s a guy downstairs asking for you. Brian Brenner.’
There’s a dive bar a block from the office, Hang Chew’s in its latest incarnation. She orders a Manhattan, he a scotch and there’s nothing new to see here. ‘Do you drink anything worth drinking?’ She asks, littering his jaw with kisses.
He pulls a shrug, ‘Takes all the fun out of it.’
Her laugh echoes low, ‘Well isn’t that romantic?’
My Darling Mackenzie, the letter slips in his fingers, Yours Always, Brian Brenner.
He hears her heels click on the marble. It takes a moment for her eyes to settle on his hand.
'I'm so sorry, Will.'
Well, you know what happens next, call it fate if you want: it is October, 1929.
The party's over. Everyone go home.
end of part i