fic: the freeze-thaw effect
the freeze-thaw effect
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/will, slight mac/brian), post the greater fool, pg-13.
because then you’d have to live with it.
nb; tentative sequel to fingers crossed. this is basically everything I want from series two so make of that what you will idek anymore.
if it can be broke
then it can be fixed
pioneers; BLOC PARTY
It’s a lesson her father taught her when she was young: actions have consequences. Cheating on your perfect boyfriend with your douchebag ex-lover leads to the aforementioned boyfriend hiring the douchebag to write an article about your revolutionary television show leads to a hatchet piece in New York Magazine leads to you fucking him. The douchebag, that is. Not the boyfriend.
Keep up.
Brian’s doorman, it transpires, is neither as stupid nor as discreet as he first appears. Her knuckles pop white around the crumpled magazine. “I-Will- “
He lights a cigarette, and for a second she thinks he’s going to say something profound. “I hope you’re very happy together.”
“We’re not together.”
A hollow laugh. “Where have I heard that one before?” He pauses, takes a long drag on his cigarette. “One question, though: why didn’t you tell me?”
She ducks her head, “Because then you’d have to live with it.”
The show is a catastrophe that evening. Call it karma if you want, but there is no other way to describe it. “This is fucking ridiculous” he says.
“You’re still on air, Will.”
The studio door swings and slams.
“You’re an idiot,” she says. It is not a term of endearment.
His grimace flashes teeth. “Makes two of us.”
The third button on her shirt’s slipped loose. He is looking at her bra and she is pretending not to notice. “Don’t get smart with me, Billy boy.”
“Don’t call me Billy.” His hands have tightened on the knot of his tie, and he’s only making the problem worse.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want and you will suck on it.”
Sometimes she forgets that she’s in love with him.
Friday passes and somehow she still has a job. It’s not so much a threat anymore, as a casual reminder: I own you. Except for when I don’t.
“Drink.” He says. It’s not a question. She tips the scotch down her throat and eyes him watching her throat bob.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m beyond help.” He says, finds it within himself to smile. It almost reaches his eyes.
She cocks her head, “And finally you’re right about something.”
His laugh’s soft and throaty. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
“I was beginning to doubt it.” She says, makes a point of holding his gaze.
He smiles at her, pauses. “I’ve missed this.” He says eventually, and it comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
She ought to be used to this, by now.
Time passes. The bottle’s half empty. Or half full. She’s had too much whiskey for semantics.
“Thank you,” He says, softly slurred, “for not telling me about Brian. It-it means a lot.” Thank you for not confiding in me, that’s a new one.
She frowns. “You’re-welcome?” she replies, and he chuckles. She giggles, too, drags her lower lip through her teeth when she looks at him through her hair.
“I’ve missed this,” he says again. He never could hold his drink.
Her eyes catch his, and she can’t quite look away. “Me too.” She smiles, and she could probably kiss him right now and get away with it.
So she does.
Her father told her once: actions have-fuck it, Mackenzie. You’ll work it out.
end.
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/will, slight mac/brian), post the greater fool, pg-13.
because then you’d have to live with it.
nb; tentative sequel to fingers crossed. this is basically everything I want from series two so make of that what you will idek anymore.
if it can be broke
then it can be fixed
pioneers; BLOC PARTY
It’s a lesson her father taught her when she was young: actions have consequences. Cheating on your perfect boyfriend with your douchebag ex-lover leads to the aforementioned boyfriend hiring the douchebag to write an article about your revolutionary television show leads to a hatchet piece in New York Magazine leads to you fucking him. The douchebag, that is. Not the boyfriend.
Keep up.
Brian’s doorman, it transpires, is neither as stupid nor as discreet as he first appears. Her knuckles pop white around the crumpled magazine. “I-Will- “
He lights a cigarette, and for a second she thinks he’s going to say something profound. “I hope you’re very happy together.”
“We’re not together.”
A hollow laugh. “Where have I heard that one before?” He pauses, takes a long drag on his cigarette. “One question, though: why didn’t you tell me?”
She ducks her head, “Because then you’d have to live with it.”
The show is a catastrophe that evening. Call it karma if you want, but there is no other way to describe it. “This is fucking ridiculous” he says.
“You’re still on air, Will.”
The studio door swings and slams.
“You’re an idiot,” she says. It is not a term of endearment.
His grimace flashes teeth. “Makes two of us.”
The third button on her shirt’s slipped loose. He is looking at her bra and she is pretending not to notice. “Don’t get smart with me, Billy boy.”
“Don’t call me Billy.” His hands have tightened on the knot of his tie, and he’s only making the problem worse.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want and you will suck on it.”
Sometimes she forgets that she’s in love with him.
Friday passes and somehow she still has a job. It’s not so much a threat anymore, as a casual reminder: I own you. Except for when I don’t.
“Drink.” He says. It’s not a question. She tips the scotch down her throat and eyes him watching her throat bob.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m beyond help.” He says, finds it within himself to smile. It almost reaches his eyes.
She cocks her head, “And finally you’re right about something.”
His laugh’s soft and throaty. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
“I was beginning to doubt it.” She says, makes a point of holding his gaze.
He smiles at her, pauses. “I’ve missed this.” He says eventually, and it comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
She ought to be used to this, by now.
Time passes. The bottle’s half empty. Or half full. She’s had too much whiskey for semantics.
“Thank you,” He says, softly slurred, “for not telling me about Brian. It-it means a lot.” Thank you for not confiding in me, that’s a new one.
She frowns. “You’re-welcome?” she replies, and he chuckles. She giggles, too, drags her lower lip through her teeth when she looks at him through her hair.
“I’ve missed this,” he says again. He never could hold his drink.
Her eyes catch his, and she can’t quite look away. “Me too.” She smiles, and she could probably kiss him right now and get away with it.
So she does.
Her father told her once: actions have-fuck it, Mackenzie. You’ll work it out.
end.