fic: broken spines (it's ok: we're talking literature here)
broken spines (it's ok: we're talking literature here)
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, pre-series, pg-13
and gosh how time flies when will mcavoy’s looking at your arse.
for becki, who is the best but also the worst.
but I know now that we were not the people
that we turned out to be
kate nash
It’s a crime of optimism, really, when she catches his eye. It’s 2004, nearly 2005 and gosh how time flies when Will McAvoy’s looking at your arse.
Let’s preface this by saying: she’s had a little to drink.
Charlie Skinners’s had a bit too much too. It is New Year’s Eve, after all. “Will!” he shouts, “You haven’t met Mackenzie McHale, have you?”
She smiles, cocks her head just so, “There’s no need to introduce yourself, Mr McAvoy.”
“My reputation precedes me.”
“So it would seem.”
His lips are soft against hers when the clocks strike twelve. “Happy New Year.” He says, fingers still knotted in her hair.
“Hold up. The clock's still striking," she says, kisses him again. It’s not anywhere close to chaste, this time, a messy mix of his lips and her tongue and champagne cocktails and she thinks she can taste smoke in there as well. There are worse vices.
She’ll say this for Will McAvoy: he can wine and dine like no other. She thinks back to her first date with Brian, some dodgy East Village burrito bar and yes ok the Margaritas were very good. In retrospect she guesses that that was kind of the point.
But that was then and this is now. William Duncan McAvoy, registered Republican from rural Nebraska who is pro-reality (she’ll change that, whatever it means) and anti-government (that too, and ditto) sits in front of her in place of Brian fucking Brenner. He’s polished, she’d say slick if it didn’t sound so sleazy, and his questions are laced with a wit and irony she hasn’t heard since she last saw her father.
No. She is not thinking about Daddy right now.
He goes to top up her glass, the clumsy chink of glass on glass, “When Charlie set us up he told me you were the best EP in the business.”
Her lips curl. “Is this a date or an interview?”
“Are they mutually exclusive?”
She shrugs, “Well,” she says, “We’re grown-ups.” Why not?
She gets the job.
Everything she’s heard about him is true.
Her first show comes thick and fast, and she barely has a chance to catch her breath before he’s in the control room. She’s slightly breathless and fuck he probably thinks it’s his fault. And that would be because it is.
“Dinner?”
Her hand can’t rise to her mouth fast enough to hide her smile.
The second date and she can’t remember if it’s acceptable to fuck him yet.
Her chin rests in her palm and she smiles. It is what romantics would call wistful. “What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done?” She asks. Don’t laugh, ok? It’s been a while. She is not a serial dater.
“I’ve been on Air Force One.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
He shrugs, “It’s worked before.” He says, and she laughs. Sometimes his charm gets a little much. He’s affable, apparently.
So she sits back, toys with her wine glass. “Not on me.”
Yeah: the second date’s totally acceptable.
The aforementioned second becomes the third. The third the fourth. And so on. Whatever, you get the picture. And to think, she used to laugh when her father asked her, “Now, Mackenzie, when are you going to settle down?”
Now there is Will McAvoy and an Orioles game.
“He seems nice.” Her mother says, and it’s not the word she’d use to describe William McAvoy but still, she nods.
“Yeah. He is.”
She fucks it up. Of course she does. Her crime is optimism.
end.
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, pre-series, pg-13
and gosh how time flies when will mcavoy’s looking at your arse.
for becki, who is the best but also the worst.
but I know now that we were not the people
that we turned out to be
kate nash
It’s a crime of optimism, really, when she catches his eye. It’s 2004, nearly 2005 and gosh how time flies when Will McAvoy’s looking at your arse.
Let’s preface this by saying: she’s had a little to drink.
Charlie Skinners’s had a bit too much too. It is New Year’s Eve, after all. “Will!” he shouts, “You haven’t met Mackenzie McHale, have you?”
She smiles, cocks her head just so, “There’s no need to introduce yourself, Mr McAvoy.”
“My reputation precedes me.”
“So it would seem.”
His lips are soft against hers when the clocks strike twelve. “Happy New Year.” He says, fingers still knotted in her hair.
“Hold up. The clock's still striking," she says, kisses him again. It’s not anywhere close to chaste, this time, a messy mix of his lips and her tongue and champagne cocktails and she thinks she can taste smoke in there as well. There are worse vices.
She’ll say this for Will McAvoy: he can wine and dine like no other. She thinks back to her first date with Brian, some dodgy East Village burrito bar and yes ok the Margaritas were very good. In retrospect she guesses that that was kind of the point.
But that was then and this is now. William Duncan McAvoy, registered Republican from rural Nebraska who is pro-reality (she’ll change that, whatever it means) and anti-government (that too, and ditto) sits in front of her in place of Brian fucking Brenner. He’s polished, she’d say slick if it didn’t sound so sleazy, and his questions are laced with a wit and irony she hasn’t heard since she last saw her father.
No. She is not thinking about Daddy right now.
He goes to top up her glass, the clumsy chink of glass on glass, “When Charlie set us up he told me you were the best EP in the business.”
Her lips curl. “Is this a date or an interview?”
“Are they mutually exclusive?”
She shrugs, “Well,” she says, “We’re grown-ups.” Why not?
She gets the job.
Everything she’s heard about him is true.
Her first show comes thick and fast, and she barely has a chance to catch her breath before he’s in the control room. She’s slightly breathless and fuck he probably thinks it’s his fault. And that would be because it is.
“Dinner?”
Her hand can’t rise to her mouth fast enough to hide her smile.
The second date and she can’t remember if it’s acceptable to fuck him yet.
Her chin rests in her palm and she smiles. It is what romantics would call wistful. “What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done?” She asks. Don’t laugh, ok? It’s been a while. She is not a serial dater.
“I’ve been on Air Force One.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
He shrugs, “It’s worked before.” He says, and she laughs. Sometimes his charm gets a little much. He’s affable, apparently.
So she sits back, toys with her wine glass. “Not on me.”
Yeah: the second date’s totally acceptable.
The aforementioned second becomes the third. The third the fourth. And so on. Whatever, you get the picture. And to think, she used to laugh when her father asked her, “Now, Mackenzie, when are you going to settle down?”
Now there is Will McAvoy and an Orioles game.
“He seems nice.” Her mother says, and it’s not the word she’d use to describe William McAvoy but still, she nods.
“Yeah. He is.”
She fucks it up. Of course she does. Her crime is optimism.
end.