fic: production values
PRODUCTION VALUES
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/will), r.
she is an idealist in the purest sense
nb; I can’t be the only one wondering why they were discussing work at 4am, right?
don't get offended if I seem absent minded
I never known what's good for me
this modern love; BLOC PARTY
She is an idealist in the purest sense: what is wrong may be put right, and what was once right can be so again. It is not pessimism to say, we all make mistakes.
Optimism taught her that.
Charlie gives her a talk, and it’s been a long time since she’s felt fifteen.
“He’s fragile, Mackenzie.” He tells her. It hangs.
She ducks her head, avoids the obvious jokes. “Yeah,” she says instead, thumbs through her notepad. “That would be my fault.”
The older man frowns, “Three years is a long time.”
It’s not. But it can be.
“Three years is a long time. Three weeks, though...”
Her fingers twist, an old reflex she thought she left at college. Apparently not. “I’ve found us a job, Jim.”
“Where?” He looks only mildly interested.
“You’ve seen the Will McAvoy Northwestern-incident, right?” That was not the question he asked and she is not selling this well.
Jim grins, “I have an internet connection.”
She frowns, “Is that a yes?”
What do you think?
Hi Will. It’s good to see you.
And so it goes. He doesn’t shout, but he’s certainly not pleased to see her. It’s not surprising, really.
Still, she baits him with Don Qui-fucking-xote and he bites. Only fools rush in, and you know what, don’t bother. She’s heard this all before.
They go for a drink. They are adults, apparently.
“Will-“
“Let’s keep this professional.” He says. He’s holding his glass a touch too tight to be comfortable, and if he thinks she hasn’t noticed then he’s an idiot. Nothing new to see here.
She snorts, “We never were any good at that.”
His mattress creaks softly beneath them when she arches into him. “Are you in or are you in?” She asks, a ragged breath.
He stills, draws back a fraction to look at her. “You’re kidding me.”
“Well obviously you’re-in, but-“
He kisses her now, hard, his free hand harsh on her chin. He bites down on her lower lip, draws it out until she moans and her thighs tighten around his hips.
A beat. “Is that a yes or a-“
“Just shut up, Mackenzie.”
He comes with a shudder and a grunt, “They’re too young.” He says, and it takes a moment for her to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about.
“We’re talking about this now?” She says, even as she can muster when he draws a nipple into his mouth, “Really?”
He doesn’t reply, for obvious reasons.
Her mouth’s dry when she wakes, and it takes a second for her to remember where she is. He grins at her and call her old-fashioned but she always imagined that this would be, well, awkward and it is, in the narrowest sense, but he is smirking at her, propped up on his elbow.
She swings her legs off his bed, “I’ll see you at the office, then.”
He’s the Man of la Mancha and she’s his Dulcinea. Idealists, eh?
end.
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/will), r.
she is an idealist in the purest sense
nb; I can’t be the only one wondering why they were discussing work at 4am, right?
don't get offended if I seem absent minded
I never known what's good for me
this modern love; BLOC PARTY
She is an idealist in the purest sense: what is wrong may be put right, and what was once right can be so again. It is not pessimism to say, we all make mistakes.
Optimism taught her that.
Charlie gives her a talk, and it’s been a long time since she’s felt fifteen.
“He’s fragile, Mackenzie.” He tells her. It hangs.
She ducks her head, avoids the obvious jokes. “Yeah,” she says instead, thumbs through her notepad. “That would be my fault.”
The older man frowns, “Three years is a long time.”
It’s not. But it can be.
“Three years is a long time. Three weeks, though...”
Her fingers twist, an old reflex she thought she left at college. Apparently not. “I’ve found us a job, Jim.”
“Where?” He looks only mildly interested.
“You’ve seen the Will McAvoy Northwestern-incident, right?” That was not the question he asked and she is not selling this well.
Jim grins, “I have an internet connection.”
She frowns, “Is that a yes?”
What do you think?
Hi Will. It’s good to see you.
And so it goes. He doesn’t shout, but he’s certainly not pleased to see her. It’s not surprising, really.
Still, she baits him with Don Qui-fucking-xote and he bites. Only fools rush in, and you know what, don’t bother. She’s heard this all before.
They go for a drink. They are adults, apparently.
“Will-“
“Let’s keep this professional.” He says. He’s holding his glass a touch too tight to be comfortable, and if he thinks she hasn’t noticed then he’s an idiot. Nothing new to see here.
She snorts, “We never were any good at that.”
His mattress creaks softly beneath them when she arches into him. “Are you in or are you in?” She asks, a ragged breath.
He stills, draws back a fraction to look at her. “You’re kidding me.”
“Well obviously you’re-in, but-“
He kisses her now, hard, his free hand harsh on her chin. He bites down on her lower lip, draws it out until she moans and her thighs tighten around his hips.
A beat. “Is that a yes or a-“
“Just shut up, Mackenzie.”
He comes with a shudder and a grunt, “They’re too young.” He says, and it takes a moment for her to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about.
“We’re talking about this now?” She says, even as she can muster when he draws a nipple into his mouth, “Really?”
He doesn’t reply, for obvious reasons.
Her mouth’s dry when she wakes, and it takes a second for her to remember where she is. He grins at her and call her old-fashioned but she always imagined that this would be, well, awkward and it is, in the narrowest sense, but he is smirking at her, propped up on his elbow.
She swings her legs off his bed, “I’ll see you at the office, then.”
He’s the Man of la Mancha and she’s his Dulcinea. Idealists, eh?
end.