fic: CONVERGENCE
CONVERGENCE
the newsroom, will mcavoy (will/mackenzie), light r
beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.
nb; so now my fic comes with free maths lessons? this is what chardonnay does to a girl, clearly. this should, in principle, stand up to linear reading but it’s technically three separate stories told simultaneously, the presentation of which is inspired by this flawless piece of literature.
so here we are
again
BLOC PARTY
(when a mathematician says a permutation is even, he or she does not mean it is a multiple of two.
no, they instead refer to its direction of travel - is it going clockwise, or anti-clockwise? forwards or backwards? left or right?
there is a name to describe it, but that is only important in exam halls. for now it is sufficient to know this: sometimes, mathematicians know jack shit.)
2.
“I-there’s-Will. There’s something I have to tell you.”
He nods easily. Their breakfast plates lie unwashed on the work-top, and he picks up the milk in a half-hearted attempt to tidy up.
“I slept with Brian last night.” She says.
The milk bottle smashes. There’s a cliché in here, somewhere.
1.
“Will McAvoy,” he says, holds out a hand.
Her shake is a little harder than he expected, her fingers cold over his. “Mackenzie McHale.” She says, “How do you do?”
“You’re British.” He says, and it kind of just comes out of his mouth.
Her lips quirk and, yes, she’s laughing at him. “You’re supposed to say ‘how you do you’ back, you know.”
3.
Her voice is softly clipped in his ear, “We’re running short a minute. Shuffle your papers if you understand.”
The papers scatter across the desk, and we’ll be back soon with more coverage of the spill. He twists his earpiece, “Why the fuck are we short?”
“You talk too fast.”
He almost snorts, “I talk at the normal cadence for an intelligent human being.”
“You talk at the normal cadence for a jerk, Will.” An exasperated sigh, and it’s so fucking close it aches, a little, in his stomach. “Just push harder on the follow ups. You’re back in 10.”
(two one three.
this is an odd permutation. think of a clock and notice: we are tracking backwards. only, in time we travel forwards too.
you see? jack shit)
1.
It’s her first show as his EP, and he can almost hear her shaking down his earpiece. “10 seconds.”
“Break a leg, McHale.”
“Go to hell, McAvoy.” She says, and he turns to the cameras again. “And stop fucking smirking.”
2.
There’s a saying they’re fond of, over in LA: the show must go on! they exclaim, and Will never did like actors.
“Will-“ she begins and his earpiece is out before she finishes the syllable.
The show is horrendous, that evening, and when Charlie asks him what the fuck went wrong he can’t quite put it into words, just yet. Instead he grunts an apology and slumps onto the sofa with a bourbon and a cigarette.
It takes Mackenzie’s letter of resignation, with immediate effect, for the older man to piece together the puzzle.
1.
“Good show,” he says afterwards, a trademark grin.
She bites her lip when she smiles and she’s a lot younger than her position suggests, it would seem. “There’s room for improvement.” She says, tugging her hair out of its rough bun. It bounces down around her shoulders, frames her features perfectly.
“But for now there’s room for a drink, right?”
She nods, in mock subservience, settles her hand in the crook of his arm and a faux Cockney accent he shouldn’t find as attractive as he does. “Right you are, guv’nor.”
3.
The show still finishes short and he’s still left floundering like an idiot. It’s not a good look on him.
“Fuck it,” comes her disembodied voice, “Just roll the credits.”
2.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” He says, when Charlie tells him exactly what and where he’s driven her to.
“She’ll be good at it.”
He stands, fumbles for his lighter, “That’s not the fucking point.” He says, and he’s praying really, really, hard right now that there isn’t a god about to levy some fucking karma on her head.
“I know.” Charlie sighs, pours two drinks, “But it’s not yours to make, anymore.”
And that, he guesses, is the fucking point indeed.
(it is worth pointing out that not all permutations of three numbers change those same three.
for example: it is perfectly possible to switch one and two and for poor number three not to notice a thing. in social circles, this happens all the time. did you hear what x said? yes, but don’t tell y.
our lives are played out in this way, a sly smile here and an exchange of numbers there until we are all jumbled up and only a few stand stationery and unmoved.
now you are learning.)
1.
She giggles into her drink, and it’s been a long time since anyone’s found his jokes funny. Or maybe she’s just a bit tipsy. He’s fine with that too.
Still, he has to ask. “Are you just laughing just to be polite?”
There’s a brief lull, and it scares him for a second before she chuckles. “I’m your EP, Will. I don’t need to be polite to you.”
She has a very good point.
3.
They have a row, facing off across the newsroom. He’s yelling and she’s yelling and it’s almost like the last five years never happened. “I am the Managing Editor of News Night.”
“And I am your Executive Producer.” She screams, throws her hands up, “We do not chase ratings at ACN, Will. We chase the truth.”
It’s a saying she’s fond of, and usually he finds it endearing naïve. Not now. “Stop kidding yourself, Mackenzie. You’re not a fucking undergrad anymore.” And this is getting personal very quickly, even for them.
She scoffs, “No. But look on the bright side: at least I’m not Will McAvoy’s wife.”
Suddenly there is silence. Not the stuttering, passing, kind, but a true hush that settles and smothers the entire room. She catches his eye, just for a second, blinks rapidly before storming past him towards her office.
Sloan stills a second at his shoulder before she goes to follow. “Unbelievable.”
2.
She sends him another email and he still cannot bring himself to read it.
I don’t know what to say, reads the subject line and, well, he’s William McAvoy not William Gates but even he can tell this will not be a brief read.
He has a cigarette and a whiskey and a really sick part of him just wants to hear her suffer.
He deletes it. He is above that, at least.
3.
He enters her office whiskey first. Her eyes are red and initially she turns her face away. “Piss off.” She says, sharp.
The glasses chink when he sets them down. “I’m sorry.” He mutters. Apologies do not come naturally to him, it would seem.
She is still staring at the wall, but her shoulders have relaxed fractionally. “I didn’t mean it, you know.” She says, so quiet he can barely hear it. He does though, passes her a drink in response and she slowly shifts to face him.
Her nose crinkles when she takes a gulp. “My point still stands though.”
1.
Her lips are warm, in sharp contrast to her fingers sliding southward. He has to surface for air because they’re so firm against him but most of all they’re just really fucking cold.
“I’m sorry,“ She stumbles when he curses, slurred.
He catches her with his lips, biting gently at her pulse point and she gasps, throaty, when his own (warm, thank god) hand guides her to where he likes it.
2.
She calls him, and clearly she doesn’t have the first clue about timezones because it’s four in the fucking morning and his bed is still too cold and too big.
“Will- “ her accent’s harsher than he remembers, though maybe it’s just the phone line, “Will I know you’re there. God, please just pick up.”
His fist clenches beneath the sheets, and he rolls away from her voice, her please an echoing sound that cuts him to the core.
“I’m so sorry Will.” She says, a distant sob.
As if he didn’t already know.
3.
“I know,” he says, but his laugh is weak, because god yes, he knows. Things have changed, are moving forward, and he thinks he might be close to something like forgiveness.
The world marches on. He might as well keep in step.
(our lives come in stages, like a play in three acts.
most will follow a simple pattern, tried and tested by millennia: beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.
what people of the unambitious sort fail to realise that these can be permuted. move one to two, two to three and the end to the start and you won’t recognise what you began with. we’re happy to do this on a small scale: shuffle a deck of cards, for instance, but the truth is that most of us are too scared or too settled or too sensible to do this to our lives.
and that’s fine. because ultimately it’s not the numbers that matter, it’s the parity of their combination. it’s a matter of even and odd and the question is this:
which way do you want to travel?)
end.
the newsroom, will mcavoy (will/mackenzie), light r
beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.
nb; so now my fic comes with free maths lessons? this is what chardonnay does to a girl, clearly. this should, in principle, stand up to linear reading but it’s technically three separate stories told simultaneously, the presentation of which is inspired by this flawless piece of literature.
so here we are
again
BLOC PARTY
(when a mathematician says a permutation is even, he or she does not mean it is a multiple of two.
no, they instead refer to its direction of travel - is it going clockwise, or anti-clockwise? forwards or backwards? left or right?
there is a name to describe it, but that is only important in exam halls. for now it is sufficient to know this: sometimes, mathematicians know jack shit.)
2.
“I-there’s-Will. There’s something I have to tell you.”
He nods easily. Their breakfast plates lie unwashed on the work-top, and he picks up the milk in a half-hearted attempt to tidy up.
“I slept with Brian last night.” She says.
The milk bottle smashes. There’s a cliché in here, somewhere.
1.
“Will McAvoy,” he says, holds out a hand.
Her shake is a little harder than he expected, her fingers cold over his. “Mackenzie McHale.” She says, “How do you do?”
“You’re British.” He says, and it kind of just comes out of his mouth.
Her lips quirk and, yes, she’s laughing at him. “You’re supposed to say ‘how you do you’ back, you know.”
3.
Her voice is softly clipped in his ear, “We’re running short a minute. Shuffle your papers if you understand.”
The papers scatter across the desk, and we’ll be back soon with more coverage of the spill. He twists his earpiece, “Why the fuck are we short?”
“You talk too fast.”
He almost snorts, “I talk at the normal cadence for an intelligent human being.”
“You talk at the normal cadence for a jerk, Will.” An exasperated sigh, and it’s so fucking close it aches, a little, in his stomach. “Just push harder on the follow ups. You’re back in 10.”
(two one three.
this is an odd permutation. think of a clock and notice: we are tracking backwards. only, in time we travel forwards too.
you see? jack shit)
1.
It’s her first show as his EP, and he can almost hear her shaking down his earpiece. “10 seconds.”
“Break a leg, McHale.”
“Go to hell, McAvoy.” She says, and he turns to the cameras again. “And stop fucking smirking.”
2.
There’s a saying they’re fond of, over in LA: the show must go on! they exclaim, and Will never did like actors.
“Will-“ she begins and his earpiece is out before she finishes the syllable.
The show is horrendous, that evening, and when Charlie asks him what the fuck went wrong he can’t quite put it into words, just yet. Instead he grunts an apology and slumps onto the sofa with a bourbon and a cigarette.
It takes Mackenzie’s letter of resignation, with immediate effect, for the older man to piece together the puzzle.
1.
“Good show,” he says afterwards, a trademark grin.
She bites her lip when she smiles and she’s a lot younger than her position suggests, it would seem. “There’s room for improvement.” She says, tugging her hair out of its rough bun. It bounces down around her shoulders, frames her features perfectly.
“But for now there’s room for a drink, right?”
She nods, in mock subservience, settles her hand in the crook of his arm and a faux Cockney accent he shouldn’t find as attractive as he does. “Right you are, guv’nor.”
3.
The show still finishes short and he’s still left floundering like an idiot. It’s not a good look on him.
“Fuck it,” comes her disembodied voice, “Just roll the credits.”
2.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” He says, when Charlie tells him exactly what and where he’s driven her to.
“She’ll be good at it.”
He stands, fumbles for his lighter, “That’s not the fucking point.” He says, and he’s praying really, really, hard right now that there isn’t a god about to levy some fucking karma on her head.
“I know.” Charlie sighs, pours two drinks, “But it’s not yours to make, anymore.”
And that, he guesses, is the fucking point indeed.
(it is worth pointing out that not all permutations of three numbers change those same three.
for example: it is perfectly possible to switch one and two and for poor number three not to notice a thing. in social circles, this happens all the time. did you hear what x said? yes, but don’t tell y.
our lives are played out in this way, a sly smile here and an exchange of numbers there until we are all jumbled up and only a few stand stationery and unmoved.
now you are learning.)
1.
She giggles into her drink, and it’s been a long time since anyone’s found his jokes funny. Or maybe she’s just a bit tipsy. He’s fine with that too.
Still, he has to ask. “Are you just laughing just to be polite?”
There’s a brief lull, and it scares him for a second before she chuckles. “I’m your EP, Will. I don’t need to be polite to you.”
She has a very good point.
3.
They have a row, facing off across the newsroom. He’s yelling and she’s yelling and it’s almost like the last five years never happened. “I am the Managing Editor of News Night.”
“And I am your Executive Producer.” She screams, throws her hands up, “We do not chase ratings at ACN, Will. We chase the truth.”
It’s a saying she’s fond of, and usually he finds it endearing naïve. Not now. “Stop kidding yourself, Mackenzie. You’re not a fucking undergrad anymore.” And this is getting personal very quickly, even for them.
She scoffs, “No. But look on the bright side: at least I’m not Will McAvoy’s wife.”
Suddenly there is silence. Not the stuttering, passing, kind, but a true hush that settles and smothers the entire room. She catches his eye, just for a second, blinks rapidly before storming past him towards her office.
Sloan stills a second at his shoulder before she goes to follow. “Unbelievable.”
2.
She sends him another email and he still cannot bring himself to read it.
I don’t know what to say, reads the subject line and, well, he’s William McAvoy not William Gates but even he can tell this will not be a brief read.
He has a cigarette and a whiskey and a really sick part of him just wants to hear her suffer.
He deletes it. He is above that, at least.
3.
He enters her office whiskey first. Her eyes are red and initially she turns her face away. “Piss off.” She says, sharp.
The glasses chink when he sets them down. “I’m sorry.” He mutters. Apologies do not come naturally to him, it would seem.
She is still staring at the wall, but her shoulders have relaxed fractionally. “I didn’t mean it, you know.” She says, so quiet he can barely hear it. He does though, passes her a drink in response and she slowly shifts to face him.
Her nose crinkles when she takes a gulp. “My point still stands though.”
1.
Her lips are warm, in sharp contrast to her fingers sliding southward. He has to surface for air because they’re so firm against him but most of all they’re just really fucking cold.
“I’m sorry,“ She stumbles when he curses, slurred.
He catches her with his lips, biting gently at her pulse point and she gasps, throaty, when his own (warm, thank god) hand guides her to where he likes it.
2.
She calls him, and clearly she doesn’t have the first clue about timezones because it’s four in the fucking morning and his bed is still too cold and too big.
“Will- “ her accent’s harsher than he remembers, though maybe it’s just the phone line, “Will I know you’re there. God, please just pick up.”
His fist clenches beneath the sheets, and he rolls away from her voice, her please an echoing sound that cuts him to the core.
“I’m so sorry Will.” She says, a distant sob.
As if he didn’t already know.
3.
“I know,” he says, but his laugh is weak, because god yes, he knows. Things have changed, are moving forward, and he thinks he might be close to something like forgiveness.
The world marches on. He might as well keep in step.
(our lives come in stages, like a play in three acts.
most will follow a simple pattern, tried and tested by millennia: beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.
what people of the unambitious sort fail to realise that these can be permuted. move one to two, two to three and the end to the start and you won’t recognise what you began with. we’re happy to do this on a small scale: shuffle a deck of cards, for instance, but the truth is that most of us are too scared or too settled or too sensible to do this to our lives.
and that’s fine. because ultimately it’s not the numbers that matter, it’s the parity of their combination. it’s a matter of even and odd and the question is this:
which way do you want to travel?)
end.