fic: long walk home
long walk home
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, r.
even in the land of the free there are debts to pay.
They have sex.
It’s a simple sentence - she can say it in less than a breath - but that’s not the point. His mouth presses wet on her clavicle as his hips pound a steady rhythm. With his spare hand he grazes her breasts, first one, then the other, dips his lips to them both in turn, left then right, then left again. She gasps, and her fists ball in the sheets. Even now she refuses to touch him, lest this turns out to be a dream.
“Mackenzie,” he murmurs, and he sounds real enough. “Mackenzie. Look at me.”
She feels the sob rise in her throat. “I can’t.”
He leaves a note.
We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.
No kisses.
She does talk about it. But not to Will.
“Wait. Did you do what I think you did?” Sloan asks, her head cocked at an awkward angle.
Her fingers curl around the stem of her glass. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, throws the dregs of her drink down her throat. “I don’t know,” she pauses, turns to the other woman. “Because I could?” Because he was there and she was there and alcohol came along to play too.
It happens again. Two times is not a habit, she tells herself when he pushes into her. Her eyes are screwed tight shut, his teeth gnawing at her neck. She can feel herself sliding, sliding, sliding back into an old routine, a fuck here and there, now and again, and let’s not forget: this is what ruined her life first time around. He shifts, now, and the pressure on her body lessens a fraction. She says his name, at last acknowledges him. Her neck arches back, “There.” She says.
He pulls back a fraction, and she moans. “Mackenzie, I’m right here.” His words fall across her cheek.
She turns her face away. “Are you?”
It stings. She has no response to that.
He stays the night. She cannot hide her surprise. “Hello,” he says, a lazy smile.
“Hi,” she replies. She sits up, let’s the sheets fall about her waist. There’s an awkwardness she can’t remember, and it makes her giggle. “You’re still here.”
“I am.”
“You’re avoiding me.” A scotch-emboldened figure in her doorway.
“I’m a busy person,” she replies, as though it’s an excuse.
He enters the room, now, crosses it in three easy strides to settle in the chair across from her desk. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“Don’t fuck with me.” She throws back, the easy retort, and he laughs.
“Too late,” he says.
This ends with his face between her thighs. It’s been two, no, three days since he’s shaved and she can tell. They are unfamiliar, his teeth are foreign against her and when her fingers knot in his hair it’s not as full as it once was. They are ageing, growing, getting older and it’s all a little too close to home.
She comes with a shake and a sigh, Will, she says, and even in the land of the free there are debts to pay.
“I know.”
They have sex.
Some things are too broken to be fixed.
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, r.
even in the land of the free there are debts to pay.
They have sex.
It’s a simple sentence - she can say it in less than a breath - but that’s not the point. His mouth presses wet on her clavicle as his hips pound a steady rhythm. With his spare hand he grazes her breasts, first one, then the other, dips his lips to them both in turn, left then right, then left again. She gasps, and her fists ball in the sheets. Even now she refuses to touch him, lest this turns out to be a dream.
“Mackenzie,” he murmurs, and he sounds real enough. “Mackenzie. Look at me.”
She feels the sob rise in her throat. “I can’t.”
He leaves a note.
We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.
No kisses.
She does talk about it. But not to Will.
“Wait. Did you do what I think you did?” Sloan asks, her head cocked at an awkward angle.
Her fingers curl around the stem of her glass. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, throws the dregs of her drink down her throat. “I don’t know,” she pauses, turns to the other woman. “Because I could?” Because he was there and she was there and alcohol came along to play too.
It happens again. Two times is not a habit, she tells herself when he pushes into her. Her eyes are screwed tight shut, his teeth gnawing at her neck. She can feel herself sliding, sliding, sliding back into an old routine, a fuck here and there, now and again, and let’s not forget: this is what ruined her life first time around. He shifts, now, and the pressure on her body lessens a fraction. She says his name, at last acknowledges him. Her neck arches back, “There.” She says.
He pulls back a fraction, and she moans. “Mackenzie, I’m right here.” His words fall across her cheek.
She turns her face away. “Are you?”
It stings. She has no response to that.
He stays the night. She cannot hide her surprise. “Hello,” he says, a lazy smile.
“Hi,” she replies. She sits up, let’s the sheets fall about her waist. There’s an awkwardness she can’t remember, and it makes her giggle. “You’re still here.”
“I am.”
“You’re avoiding me.” A scotch-emboldened figure in her doorway.
“I’m a busy person,” she replies, as though it’s an excuse.
He enters the room, now, crosses it in three easy strides to settle in the chair across from her desk. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“Don’t fuck with me.” She throws back, the easy retort, and he laughs.
“Too late,” he says.
This ends with his face between her thighs. It’s been two, no, three days since he’s shaved and she can tell. They are unfamiliar, his teeth are foreign against her and when her fingers knot in his hair it’s not as full as it once was. They are ageing, growing, getting older and it’s all a little too close to home.
She comes with a shake and a sigh, Will, she says, and even in the land of the free there are debts to pay.
“I know.”
They have sex.
Some things are too broken to be fixed.