FIC: THE CROWBAR CONMAN
THE CROWBAR CONMAN
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (will/mac, brian/mac), pre-series. r.
it’s an impulse, really, an old habit embedded hard and, she reasons, it can do no more harm.
and I never was smart with love
I let the bad ones in and the good ones go
indestructible ROBYN
She is not used to silence. She’s used to Will shouting, shouting, up in her face and screaming her name. Instead he sits with his back to her whilst she packs her things, the only sound that of her own ragged sobs.
It’s almost amusing, really, to realise how quickly your entire life can fall apart.
“I’m so-“
“Don’t say it.”
Her apartment’s cold and empty, and when she washes her face clean it’s a concerted effort, not to look herself in the eye.
It’s raining outside, and she’s reminded of London, the home that never was. She half considers calling her father, finds her fingers hovering over another name. It’s an impulse, really, an old habit embedded hard and, she reasons, it can do no more harm.
He picks up straight away, and she can almost hear his smirk, “Now, now, what can I do for you?”
Her jaw tightens. “Are you busy?”
“I’d like to be.”
The door swings open before she can knock, “Fancy seeing you here.”
She ignores him, stalks into his kitchen and pours herself a drink. She never liked bourbon, but it slides down her throat easy enough.
He goes to speak, but she’s quick, catching his lower lip between hers. “Don’t say anything.”
His laugh is low. “Say please,” he growls, pulling her tighter against him and drawing her into a deep kiss when she scoffs. She lets her hands wander, knotting in his hair, sliding across his back, slipping into the back pockets of his jeans. He responds in kind, bracing against her neck and around her waist.
“To whom do I owe this honour?” He murmurs, when he turns his attention to the curve of her clavicle.
She replies by sliding a hand into his trousers, cupping him a fraction too firmly through his boxer shorts. She lets her eyes flutter shut and suddenly all she can see and feel and touch is Will. Her grip slackens and a sob rises through her gasp.
He notices, of course, and bites down on her neck. “Get a grip, Mackenzie.”
Still, she falls apart. His hips are too narrow between hers, his pace a touch too fast, and when he snakes his free hand between them his fingers are colder than Will’s. She hates herself a little more when her back arches into the contact.
“Brian,” she gasps, as measured as she can manage, which is to say, not measured at all.
His smirk hovers over her jaw, his stubble rough against it when he speaks. “Yes, Mackenzie?”
And she finally meets his gaze. “Please.”
She stays the night, and it’s mostly because she no longer has anywhere else to go. Brian passes comment, and she scowls at him through red eyes.
“Are you gonna tell me what---?”
“Nope.” She says, settles her skirt on her waist. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Which is why you called me at two in the morning?” He sits up, sets a grin upon his face, watches her as she buttons her shirt.
Her head snaps to his. “This is over.” She says, bites her lip before she adds: “For good this time.”
He is still smirking. “You tell yourself that, Mackenzie.”
She does and she will. Even he does not deserve her.
end.
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (will/mac, brian/mac), pre-series. r.
it’s an impulse, really, an old habit embedded hard and, she reasons, it can do no more harm.
and I never was smart with love
I let the bad ones in and the good ones go
indestructible ROBYN
She is not used to silence. She’s used to Will shouting, shouting, up in her face and screaming her name. Instead he sits with his back to her whilst she packs her things, the only sound that of her own ragged sobs.
It’s almost amusing, really, to realise how quickly your entire life can fall apart.
“I’m so-“
“Don’t say it.”
Her apartment’s cold and empty, and when she washes her face clean it’s a concerted effort, not to look herself in the eye.
It’s raining outside, and she’s reminded of London, the home that never was. She half considers calling her father, finds her fingers hovering over another name. It’s an impulse, really, an old habit embedded hard and, she reasons, it can do no more harm.
He picks up straight away, and she can almost hear his smirk, “Now, now, what can I do for you?”
Her jaw tightens. “Are you busy?”
“I’d like to be.”
The door swings open before she can knock, “Fancy seeing you here.”
She ignores him, stalks into his kitchen and pours herself a drink. She never liked bourbon, but it slides down her throat easy enough.
He goes to speak, but she’s quick, catching his lower lip between hers. “Don’t say anything.”
His laugh is low. “Say please,” he growls, pulling her tighter against him and drawing her into a deep kiss when she scoffs. She lets her hands wander, knotting in his hair, sliding across his back, slipping into the back pockets of his jeans. He responds in kind, bracing against her neck and around her waist.
“To whom do I owe this honour?” He murmurs, when he turns his attention to the curve of her clavicle.
She replies by sliding a hand into his trousers, cupping him a fraction too firmly through his boxer shorts. She lets her eyes flutter shut and suddenly all she can see and feel and touch is Will. Her grip slackens and a sob rises through her gasp.
He notices, of course, and bites down on her neck. “Get a grip, Mackenzie.”
Still, she falls apart. His hips are too narrow between hers, his pace a touch too fast, and when he snakes his free hand between them his fingers are colder than Will’s. She hates herself a little more when her back arches into the contact.
“Brian,” she gasps, as measured as she can manage, which is to say, not measured at all.
His smirk hovers over her jaw, his stubble rough against it when he speaks. “Yes, Mackenzie?”
And she finally meets his gaze. “Please.”
She stays the night, and it’s mostly because she no longer has anywhere else to go. Brian passes comment, and she scowls at him through red eyes.
“Are you gonna tell me what---?”
“Nope.” She says, settles her skirt on her waist. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Which is why you called me at two in the morning?” He sits up, sets a grin upon his face, watches her as she buttons her shirt.
Her head snaps to his. “This is over.” She says, bites her lip before she adds: “For good this time.”
He is still smirking. “You tell yourself that, Mackenzie.”
She does and she will. Even he does not deserve her.
end.