Fic: When You're Fast Asleep
Title: When You're Fast Asleep
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Will McAvoy/Mackenzie McHale
Prompt: "Mac wakes Will up on his birthday @ the awesome The Newsroom Ficathon
Summary: Mackenzie is very fond of his bed - of his pillow and his blankets and his mattress that smells like vanilla because according to him, she insists on bathing in scented bubble bath like a three year old.
Birthday Series: 1. A Wish Your Heart Makes
On Tumblr
Contrary to popular belief, Will does manage to make it into bed at a reasonable hour once in a while.
Mackenzie is very fond of his bed - of his pillow and his blankets and his mattress that smells like vanilla because according to him, she insists on bathing in scented bubble bath like a three year old. The fragrance seeps into his everything - his bedding and his clothes and the walls of the apartment. Sometimes she even catches it on his skin, and then she ends up smiling bashfully, because she likes the thought that she’s rubbed off on him in a literal way as well.
She’s pressed up against his side in the early hours of the morning with her head buried in his neck and her legs curled up towards his chest. Her feet are tucked in against his thigh and Will has never been able to figure out how she reaches this position; when they fall asleep she’s all long legs and graceful, but by the time he wakes she’s crawled into a ball on his chest. He comments on it early in their relationship and she simply shrugs and says “according to my mother I’ve always slept like that,” and then resumes buttoning her blouse whilst he looks on, still beneath the covers. Her hair is always messy in the mornings and tangles easily as she moves, but Will likes pressing his lips to her forehead through her fringe, so he deals with the strands that inevitably get in the way by sifting his fingers through them rhythmically.
They’d finished work early the night before, and after collapsing onto the lounge and throwing out suggestions for food whilst she traced a finger down his chest, Will had made the executive decision to ignore his stomach and had instead carried her the few meters to the bedroom.
She was glad of it at the time. Now however, as the clock ticks steadily towards three in the morning, she wakes fast to a growling in her stomach that she knows will not go away.
She huffs softly. Will’s hand is on her back, keeping her pressed to his chest, but she knows that she’s small enough to wiggle free if she’s careful. She doesn’t have to worry about catching the corner of her pajamas as his fingers tighten, so she slides her body away, and as her bare feet hit the floor she loops his dress shirt up and over her shoulders.
It hangs long down her torso, almost to her knees, but the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows in a way that’s grown familiar. The first time she’d worn his clothes, when he was still her boss and she was still a little in awe of him, she’d seen the subtle shift in his eyes and had vowed to wear her own clothes as little as possible.
Now, the kitchen is dark and quiet, but the clock on the oven alerts her to the time, and the growl in her stomach won’t give up. She opens the fridge and blinks wearily as the light momentarily blinds her. She often forgets about things like that - that the light will hurt when its dark, or that she’s likely to trip if she doesn’t walk with her hand along the wall. She can remember the details of each political movement on the globe and can analyse the hell out of their practices and policies - but give her the simple task of walking and she has the tendency to fail.
Will teases her mercilessly about it, but his laughter is laced with a quiet fondness that sends tingles down to her toes when she thinks about it.
Looking in the fridge (when her eyes finally adjust) she realizes there’s very little hope of finding anything edible. There’s beer, and a few droopy looking vegetables that she’s sure she bought a few weeks back, and a leftover box of Chinese take out - none of which will do.
She stands in the artificial light of the refrigerator and considers her possibilities. She could settle for the box of crackers that she knows is hidden in the pantry. She could possibly even pull together and cook something out of the freezer. But it’s a special day, and by now she’s decided Will is going to have to share her three in the morning breakfast, so if she’s going to have food it’s got to be spectacular.
She tiptoes back to the bedroom (careful to run her hand along the wall) and slips on a pair of leggings. His jumper hangs over the back of a chair, and she slips that on over his dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up so they hang just past her wrist and stuffing her fingers in the edge of the fabric to keep them warm. She grabs her purse off the bedside table and slides her phone into her pocket. She considers leaving a note, but decides not to. The chances of Will waking whilst she’s gone are minute. But by the time she’s made it to the front door she’s thought better - he might wake up - and the last thing she wants is cause him panic on this morning.
She scribbles a hasty note on a post it and sticks it to her pillow where he’s sure to find it and then with her feet slipped into a pair of runners that were left by the door, she steps out into the hallway towards the elevator.
Down on the street the New York night is cold and blustery. Will’s jumper is hardly a deterrent to the savage beat of the wind, but it’s only a block to the corner store and she’s quick on her feet when she needs to be. For a brief moment she considers her stupidity - absconding down the street in the middle of the night in barely any clothing is surely not at the top of the list of safe things to do - but by the time she’s worried herself into a state of anxiety she’s stepping foot in the store and has hurried to the back.
She dallies for a second over different flavours and then spots a box of brightly decorated candles that will look perfect. On tiptoes she pays at the counter, jumping from foot to foot whilst the cashier bags her items, and then scampers back out in the freeze with the plastic bag swinging at her knees.
Will’s never been one to celebrate, though he seemed quite intent on making her birthday the best it had ever been, so she thinks its only right that they start his off the same way. She’s pretty sure there’s a bottle of champagne in the apartment and neither of them has work in the morning. They can celebrate now, and then sleep a little, and then celebrate some more.
She’s halfway through the logistics of how to never leave the bed when she steps into the elevator to ride back up to their level.
She unlocks the door quietly, because waking Will only to have him believe they are being robbed is perhaps not the best way to start her planned festivities, and slips her shoes and his jumper off in the kitchen. With a dexterity that seems to elude her on most other days, she gets his cake ready and lights the candles, ponders whether she should keep the leggings, and then decides they’re really not necessary. Will has been quite vocal in his appreciation of her legs and she wouldn’t want to deprive him. He’ll only end up taking them off himself, so she may as well save him the trouble.
The hallway is dark as she slips back towards their room, but the light from the candles guides her and she’s only a little unsteady, hyped up with excitement, when she pushes back through the door.
Will, the darling man, is still fast asleep, and she takes a moment to appreciate the figure he cuts in the moonlight. The curve of his shoulder down to his waist, the way his hair gets scruffy and falls across his forehead as he shuffles around in bed. He’s restless without her their to ground him, he tosses and turns and on nights when one of them is away he’ll often call her around midnight, whispering into her ear how much he misses having her octopus limbs pinning him to the mattress.
She sets the cake on the beside table, candles starting to drip, and drops down onto the bed, crawling carefully across until she’s leaning over his shoulder, and only then does she press her body down onto his, kissing at his neck and then nuzzling up towards his earlobe.
“Will,” she murmurs.
He grunts, and tries to turn, pulling her closer towards him.
“Will, wake up,” she giggles. She kisses the corner of his lips and he begins to smile, eyelids fluttering. “Billy,” she needles, “Come on honey.”
“S’not honey,” is his mumbled response.
Mackenzie presses her mouth to the curve of his collarbone and tries not to laugh. He’s hated the nickname ever since it originated, but sometimes she can’t help it - for all the pleasure she derives from calling him Billy, she gets equal amounts from watching the way he goes crazy at the endearment.
“Happy Birthday darling,” she murmurs, and captures his lips.
Will surges up, wrapping an arm around her stomach to curl her closer, and Mackenzie drops her elbow to the mattress to keep from falling on top of him. Will doesn’t seem to mind, however, now intent on kissing his way down her jaw line, but the flicker of candles in the night draws his attention and before long he’s leaning back to glance at the table.
“What’s all this?” he murmurs, and Mackenzie blushes and hides her head against his chest. She’s tucked into his lap as Will settles back against the wall, but she leans back to shrug, grinning wickedly, and then leans in for a kiss.
“Happy Birthday to you,” she breathes, “Happy birthday to you,” he starts laughing, “Happy Birthday dear Billy. Happy birthday to you.”
His laugh is slow. It rumbles deep in his chest and as it rises she can feel the huffs of breath against her forehead. She leans over his side and pulls the cake onto the bed. It’s a little chocolate one, not bigger than the palm of her hand, and the two candles she’d placed a top it are drooping dangerously in the middle.
With all the enthusiasm of a child, Will draws a deep breathe and blows them out, plunging the room into darkness and leaving him with a handful of chocolate and a lap full of Mackenzie. He’s not sure which he loves most.
Through the scattered moonlight through the blinds and with the solid weight of her in his lap, he catches her hand and holds it to his heart, pressing her fingers to the steady beat.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and then leaning down for a kiss, wishes for many birthdays to come.
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Will McAvoy/Mackenzie McHale
Prompt: "Mac wakes Will up on his birthday @ the awesome The Newsroom Ficathon
Summary: Mackenzie is very fond of his bed - of his pillow and his blankets and his mattress that smells like vanilla because according to him, she insists on bathing in scented bubble bath like a three year old.
Birthday Series: 1. A Wish Your Heart Makes
On Tumblr
Contrary to popular belief, Will does manage to make it into bed at a reasonable hour once in a while.
Mackenzie is very fond of his bed - of his pillow and his blankets and his mattress that smells like vanilla because according to him, she insists on bathing in scented bubble bath like a three year old. The fragrance seeps into his everything - his bedding and his clothes and the walls of the apartment. Sometimes she even catches it on his skin, and then she ends up smiling bashfully, because she likes the thought that she’s rubbed off on him in a literal way as well.
She’s pressed up against his side in the early hours of the morning with her head buried in his neck and her legs curled up towards his chest. Her feet are tucked in against his thigh and Will has never been able to figure out how she reaches this position; when they fall asleep she’s all long legs and graceful, but by the time he wakes she’s crawled into a ball on his chest. He comments on it early in their relationship and she simply shrugs and says “according to my mother I’ve always slept like that,” and then resumes buttoning her blouse whilst he looks on, still beneath the covers. Her hair is always messy in the mornings and tangles easily as she moves, but Will likes pressing his lips to her forehead through her fringe, so he deals with the strands that inevitably get in the way by sifting his fingers through them rhythmically.
They’d finished work early the night before, and after collapsing onto the lounge and throwing out suggestions for food whilst she traced a finger down his chest, Will had made the executive decision to ignore his stomach and had instead carried her the few meters to the bedroom.
She was glad of it at the time. Now however, as the clock ticks steadily towards three in the morning, she wakes fast to a growling in her stomach that she knows will not go away.
She huffs softly. Will’s hand is on her back, keeping her pressed to his chest, but she knows that she’s small enough to wiggle free if she’s careful. She doesn’t have to worry about catching the corner of her pajamas as his fingers tighten, so she slides her body away, and as her bare feet hit the floor she loops his dress shirt up and over her shoulders.
It hangs long down her torso, almost to her knees, but the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows in a way that’s grown familiar. The first time she’d worn his clothes, when he was still her boss and she was still a little in awe of him, she’d seen the subtle shift in his eyes and had vowed to wear her own clothes as little as possible.
Now, the kitchen is dark and quiet, but the clock on the oven alerts her to the time, and the growl in her stomach won’t give up. She opens the fridge and blinks wearily as the light momentarily blinds her. She often forgets about things like that - that the light will hurt when its dark, or that she’s likely to trip if she doesn’t walk with her hand along the wall. She can remember the details of each political movement on the globe and can analyse the hell out of their practices and policies - but give her the simple task of walking and she has the tendency to fail.
Will teases her mercilessly about it, but his laughter is laced with a quiet fondness that sends tingles down to her toes when she thinks about it.
Looking in the fridge (when her eyes finally adjust) she realizes there’s very little hope of finding anything edible. There’s beer, and a few droopy looking vegetables that she’s sure she bought a few weeks back, and a leftover box of Chinese take out - none of which will do.
She stands in the artificial light of the refrigerator and considers her possibilities. She could settle for the box of crackers that she knows is hidden in the pantry. She could possibly even pull together and cook something out of the freezer. But it’s a special day, and by now she’s decided Will is going to have to share her three in the morning breakfast, so if she’s going to have food it’s got to be spectacular.
She tiptoes back to the bedroom (careful to run her hand along the wall) and slips on a pair of leggings. His jumper hangs over the back of a chair, and she slips that on over his dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up so they hang just past her wrist and stuffing her fingers in the edge of the fabric to keep them warm. She grabs her purse off the bedside table and slides her phone into her pocket. She considers leaving a note, but decides not to. The chances of Will waking whilst she’s gone are minute. But by the time she’s made it to the front door she’s thought better - he might wake up - and the last thing she wants is cause him panic on this morning.
She scribbles a hasty note on a post it and sticks it to her pillow where he’s sure to find it and then with her feet slipped into a pair of runners that were left by the door, she steps out into the hallway towards the elevator.
Down on the street the New York night is cold and blustery. Will’s jumper is hardly a deterrent to the savage beat of the wind, but it’s only a block to the corner store and she’s quick on her feet when she needs to be. For a brief moment she considers her stupidity - absconding down the street in the middle of the night in barely any clothing is surely not at the top of the list of safe things to do - but by the time she’s worried herself into a state of anxiety she’s stepping foot in the store and has hurried to the back.
She dallies for a second over different flavours and then spots a box of brightly decorated candles that will look perfect. On tiptoes she pays at the counter, jumping from foot to foot whilst the cashier bags her items, and then scampers back out in the freeze with the plastic bag swinging at her knees.
Will’s never been one to celebrate, though he seemed quite intent on making her birthday the best it had ever been, so she thinks its only right that they start his off the same way. She’s pretty sure there’s a bottle of champagne in the apartment and neither of them has work in the morning. They can celebrate now, and then sleep a little, and then celebrate some more.
She’s halfway through the logistics of how to never leave the bed when she steps into the elevator to ride back up to their level.
She unlocks the door quietly, because waking Will only to have him believe they are being robbed is perhaps not the best way to start her planned festivities, and slips her shoes and his jumper off in the kitchen. With a dexterity that seems to elude her on most other days, she gets his cake ready and lights the candles, ponders whether she should keep the leggings, and then decides they’re really not necessary. Will has been quite vocal in his appreciation of her legs and she wouldn’t want to deprive him. He’ll only end up taking them off himself, so she may as well save him the trouble.
The hallway is dark as she slips back towards their room, but the light from the candles guides her and she’s only a little unsteady, hyped up with excitement, when she pushes back through the door.
Will, the darling man, is still fast asleep, and she takes a moment to appreciate the figure he cuts in the moonlight. The curve of his shoulder down to his waist, the way his hair gets scruffy and falls across his forehead as he shuffles around in bed. He’s restless without her their to ground him, he tosses and turns and on nights when one of them is away he’ll often call her around midnight, whispering into her ear how much he misses having her octopus limbs pinning him to the mattress.
She sets the cake on the beside table, candles starting to drip, and drops down onto the bed, crawling carefully across until she’s leaning over his shoulder, and only then does she press her body down onto his, kissing at his neck and then nuzzling up towards his earlobe.
“Will,” she murmurs.
He grunts, and tries to turn, pulling her closer towards him.
“Will, wake up,” she giggles. She kisses the corner of his lips and he begins to smile, eyelids fluttering. “Billy,” she needles, “Come on honey.”
“S’not honey,” is his mumbled response.
Mackenzie presses her mouth to the curve of his collarbone and tries not to laugh. He’s hated the nickname ever since it originated, but sometimes she can’t help it - for all the pleasure she derives from calling him Billy, she gets equal amounts from watching the way he goes crazy at the endearment.
“Happy Birthday darling,” she murmurs, and captures his lips.
Will surges up, wrapping an arm around her stomach to curl her closer, and Mackenzie drops her elbow to the mattress to keep from falling on top of him. Will doesn’t seem to mind, however, now intent on kissing his way down her jaw line, but the flicker of candles in the night draws his attention and before long he’s leaning back to glance at the table.
“What’s all this?” he murmurs, and Mackenzie blushes and hides her head against his chest. She’s tucked into his lap as Will settles back against the wall, but she leans back to shrug, grinning wickedly, and then leans in for a kiss.
“Happy Birthday to you,” she breathes, “Happy birthday to you,” he starts laughing, “Happy Birthday dear Billy. Happy birthday to you.”
His laugh is slow. It rumbles deep in his chest and as it rises she can feel the huffs of breath against her forehead. She leans over his side and pulls the cake onto the bed. It’s a little chocolate one, not bigger than the palm of her hand, and the two candles she’d placed a top it are drooping dangerously in the middle.
With all the enthusiasm of a child, Will draws a deep breathe and blows them out, plunging the room into darkness and leaving him with a handful of chocolate and a lap full of Mackenzie. He’s not sure which he loves most.
Through the scattered moonlight through the blinds and with the solid weight of her in his lap, he catches her hand and holds it to his heart, pressing her fingers to the steady beat.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and then leaning down for a kiss, wishes for many birthdays to come.