Fic; Lessons in Recreational Drug Use [3/?]
Title: Lessons in Recreational Drug Use [3/?]
Rating: M
Pairing: Will/Mackenzie
Summary: It’s not planned. But then again she isn’t sure what she expected when she agreed to eat those cookies. First on her list had been hearing the rest of his message, and when his request had been that she join him, possibly in the hope that neither of them would remember, she’d thought very little beyond what she wanted to know or what the consequences might reap.
With The Dawn of Redeeming Grace, Part 1
---
She dreams of Christmas and of Midnight Mass and of being frozen to her fingertips at the back of church some years ago.
Candles flicker in the corner of her vision and everything is hazy and distorted and oversaturated in a way that only dreams can be; the smell of incense burns down her throat and she has to squint to see before her. People are pressed in tight, bundled in their winter coats and muzzy with sleep in the early morning. She’s jostled from side to side as they stand and only the steady warmth of a strong arm around her middle keeps her from toppling forwards.
“Steady now,” a voice rumbles in her ear; a cheek is pressed to the back of her head and when she leans back there’s a solid chest to rest upon. “Are you cold?” the voice asks her.
She nods imperceptibly, just as the organ swells and the church erupts in a chorus; Ode To Joy soaring to the eaves overhanging and swirling around her heart. She nestles into the warm chest and feels hands squeeze her middle - lips press to the soft skin beneath her ear; a warm spike against the cold that’s settled in her bones.
She hums and feels him gather her closer.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” he murmurs adoringly.
When she wakes her room is cold and empty; but out the closed window she swears she can hear music. It strains gently against the backdrop of New York, the distant rumble of cars down the road and the odd screech or shout. She stretches against her sheets and shifts a hand down her stomach slowly, resting against her belly and pressing in softly.
“Hello,” she murmurs, “How are you this morning?”
---
Mackenzie’s first memory is waking in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport days after Christmas, curled on the leather seats with her bottom in the air, her arms and legs tucked underneath her.
According to her mother she’s slept like that ever since her little back was able to support her body, and when she’d woke to the hustle of feet in the gate, she’d propped herself up on her elbows, blinking wearily. Her mother was seated next to her, flicking idly through the paper and her fingers drifted gently through Mackenzie’s fringe. Her father was pacing back and forth at the end of the aisle and muttering to himself with a folder in hand whilst her brother skipped back and forth, always two steps behind him.
Mackenzie doesn’t remember much more than that; only the waking and seeing her family - but for the longest time she’d believed that’s where she started - that her first instance of life was opening her eyes in the airport lounge before boarding a flight back to New York.
When she was four and a half her father’s extended family had joined them for the holidays. The men were loud and robust, such a difference to the reserved adults she was used to encountering with her parents, and her uncles had taken utter delight in leaning down to her level to ask her questions.
“Where are you from, Mackenzie?” they’d stirred, “Are you English, or are you American?”
Mackenzie had scowled. “No. I’m from the airport,” in her mangled English/American cadence.
The men had laughed and then turned to her father, deftly rolling cigarettes by the bar. “You’ve got yourself a little troublemaker, Eddy!” they’d told him, and Mackenzie hadn’t understood why.
Her father had merely lifted his head and nodded; but he’d winked at her later and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“My little airport girl,” he’d murmured. To this day he still calls her that to tease.
---
This year Christmas arrives without Mackenzie noticing - a blasphemous thought, as she’s usually much better prepared.
Mackenzie loves Christmas. Loves the snow and the tinsel and the lights strung through tress. She loves hearing carols in the evening and wearing thick sweaters and socks in her apartment; loves buying presents for her niece and nephews to send back to England and seeing their bright faces over the computer on Christmas morning.
When she was a little girl her parents would take her and her brother to church at midnight. Just as in her dream she remembers the smell of candles and incense and the golden hue of candlelight through the stained glass windows.
She remembers kneeling down between her mother and father and not being able to see over the pew in front of her. In frustration she’d curl up on the floor with her colouring books and try to understand what the man at the altar was saying. His voice was always so loud and deep; a constant drone in the otherwise silent church, and Mackenzie remembers wishing he would be silent so she could try and hear Santa’s sleigh above the rooftops.
She would wear her best dress on Christmas Eve, a deep red with a satin bow around the middle, thick cream stockings and shiny black buckled shoes. They clicked on the pavement and she used to love stomping up the stone pavers to the church’s open doors, tip-tap, tip-tap, all the way down the aisle.
It’s not that she forgets Christmas this year- it would be hard to with the lights and decorations that are strung through the city - rather she doesn’t realise the day is almost upon them until she arrives at work to find tinsel hanging from her doorway.
“Maggie went a little overboard,” Will tells her, leant against the wall with his arms crossed.
She runs a finger down a line of tinsel, feels the shiny bristles tickle her palm, and then turns to him, smiling. “We could all do with a little Christmas spirit,” she tells him.
Will snorts. “You don’t think Rudolph over there is a bit much?”
She turns and finds a life size reindeer figurine standing by the Christmas tree in the corner. It has an eerily crooked red mouth painted on, and someone has covered it in fairy lights that blink in random patterns.
“Maggie named him Jim,” Will tells her, mocking only slightly.
Of course she did. Mackenzie resists the urge to roll her eyes.
Their song and dance hasn’t ended despite Maggie moving in with Don. Jim’s been tight lipped about what happened, but Mackenzie is sure she’ll get it out of him sometime. And then there’s Sloan, who’s been unusually quiet lately. She drops by Mackenzie’s office not nearly as much as she once had and Mackenzie misses her sporadic companionship throughout the day.
“I’ve been thinking,” Will starts, pushing from the wall resolutely and bringing her from her thoughts.
She turns back to him, arching an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t do too much of that Will. You might strain something.”
He deftly ignores her. Instead he nudges her gently into her office and she goes without complaint. “What have you been thinking?” she prompts.
“Coat?”
It takes her a second to realise she’s still wearing one. He steps forward and with ease unpeels it from her shoulders, catching the heavy fabric at her elbows to pull it backwards and off her arms. He’s pressed against her back and all she can think of is those arms wrapped around her in the freezing cold; the clocking ticking past midnight and the rich scent of christmas in the air and all around her.
“Will, what were you thinking?” she asks him, voice rough and catching at the end. She swallows past the thick lump in her throat and instead focuses on his face as he turns her towards him.
“We should tell them at the Christmas party.”
She nods without thinking but then processes his words, freezing.
“Tell them what?”
Will furrows his brow. He folds her coat with ease and places it over the back of her chair. Usually she hangs it by the door but she’s loath to complain when he’s in such a mood. Instead she sits at her desk and eyes him carefully.
“About the baby, Mackenzie.”
It’s the first time he’s said it with such ease. They’ve spent hours at work and over the phone at night edging closer to discussing the matter, but the careless way he throws out the term - acknowledging that this pregnancy actually leads to something, it’s not just a nine month challenge - leaves her breathless.
“Yes,” she says, now understanding.
She opens her mouth to continue, but nothing emerges, so she shuts it.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell everyone. She’s almost neared the end of her first trimester, and whilst she’s not showing yet, it won’t be long before she does. And it would make sense to tell their team over the holidays- give everyone a few days to work it through their system before they return to work, she rationalises.
She’d thought she was prepared for this moment. Had anticipated Will refusing to tell anyone or distancing himself. But her blood feels like it freezes at the very thought of exposing their secret - her body locks and her stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness; and the whole physical breakdown catches her completely by surprise. After all, she’s the one who’s supposed to be level headed about it all.
She stammers an answer, “Okay, yes,” wincing at her uncertainty. Will seems so at ease with everything now, like he’s breezed through the utter terror they first went through. He’s watching her closely but the tone of his voice is as if they were discussing the rundown.
“Mackenzie?” he prods gently. She’s focused just passed his head, refusing to meet his eye as her fingers curl.
“Hmmm? No, It’s a good idea,” she nods quickly, hoping he doesn’t continue.
“Mackenzie.” Of course he does. Which is fair, she admits - she is acting like a child.
“I’m just scared,” she tells him quickly, “That’s all. I’m allowed to be scared about telling people.”
Will is silent, leant back in his chair. He watches her carefully and she feels like a bug beneath the microscope. She always feels like that when he’s considering her.
“I am too,” he finally tells her, and despite his apparent ease she does believe him. He’s always been a master at hiding his feelings, and the last four weeks have been no exception.
“But we don’t have a choice,” he tells her gently.
And in the end that’s what everything keeps coming down to.
She shuffles the papers by her computer and nods at him, hoping to signal the end of the conversation. She needs time to think and prepare and to have a quiet breakdown before the day starts.
So, after Christmas everyone will know they’re having a child. It’s not like she could keep it a secret. But the step between her knowing and the step between her and Will knowing had been an easy one to bridge in the end; she’s pretty sure she’s no longer capable of keeping secrets from him.
But the step between them and the rest of the team? That feels like the space between tall mountains. Tall mountains separated by hemispheres. Or maybe planets. She hasn’t decided.
Other people knowing settles the weight of responsibility and reality firmly on her shoulders. She wasn’t kidding when she’d told Will that three years was the longest she’d signed up for anything.
And having a kid? Yeah, that’s a full time, rest of your life, sort of contract. She’s never been very good at anticipating that far into the future. Sometimes she barely remembers what her plans are for the coming week.
Before her, Will claps his hands on his knees and stands, walking towards her doorway. He pauses at the last minute, turning back, and she wishes he would just leave so she can start worrying in private.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?” he asks quickly, eyes deftly avoiding her gaze.
She cocks her head to the side and tries to hide her smile; despite everything she does finds his quiet concern lovely. Annoying, she ponders for a brief second, but lovely.
She’d been worried it might be smothering, but the moments are few and far between. Occasionally he will glance towards her in meetings, eyes shifting to her stomach and then back; he keeps interrupting her around lunchtime or casually mentioning dinner, hands her water bottles as they broadcast and once even asked how she’d slept. Each time he does it with an awkward little shuffle, avoiding her gaze until the last minute, and she’s steadily beginning to understand that this is his way of easing into the pregnancy - she’s not going to deny him that small part, no matter how startling it might be.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she tells him now, “More tired than usual, but I’ve been told that will ease.”
Will nods, running a hand through his hair. “Good,” he smiles genuinely. He goes to leave.
“Will you do something for me?” he asks quickly, and she startles.
“Yes Will,” she huffs, humoring him.
He shuffles a foot back and forth and Mackenzie’s breath catches as she realises he’s actually nervous. She’s not a fool; she knows how insecure he can be, but there’s a quiet, uncommon strength in his words and actions that she wishes he would see in himself.
“Tell me when you start noticing things?” he asks quickly.
His face is blank but his eyes are soft; unguarded in this small moment between them. Mackenzie nods without thinking and then fights to speak through her blooming smile. “Yes, of course. I promise.”
He nods once and then walks out, leaving her office. She turns back to her computer and begins the day.
---
She calls her mother that afternoon because there’s a small part in every girl that wants curl up in their mother’s arms when they’re scared.
She thinks perhaps that if she can get through this phone call that she’ll be able to handle anything, but then the phones ringing and her mothers picking up and she’s halfway towards the words, “I’m pregnant,” when Eloise McHale starts babbling.
“Please say you’re ringing to tell me you’re coming to London for Christmas,” her mother pleads. There’s a loud bang accompanying her words from somewhere in the distance. Mackenzie finds herself standing in her office, mouth closing and frowning steadily at the phone.
“No,” she says, voice tilting up at the end. “Am I?”
“Your father and I are going to visit your brother and we’d love to have you here darling. The four of us haven’t had Christmas together since before you went away and the last time you saw the children was -”
“Your anniversary, I know,” Mackenzie mumbles. Her mother has the amazing ability to make her feel guilty about nearly everything. Neither of her parents had been impressed when she took the job in Afghanistan; instead they refer to it as her time away. Like she’d been on holidays in Hawaii, or as a correspondent in Paris, or Madrid. Not operating out of Islamabad and getting stabbed whilst attempting to take footage in the middle of a protest. Apparently two Peabody’s mean nothing to your parents when you’re working in the middle of a war.
Will I be like that, she wonders, suddenly. Utterly terrified by her child’s safety? She supposes that’s what their reticence was.
It’s probably not the nicest thing to tell your parents over the phone - Hi mum and dad, you know that man you thought I was going to marry, that one you really liked? Well, I stuffed that up so now I’m moving to Afghanistan. Be back soon, Love you!
“I’ll think about it,” she tells her mother now, “Work is busy, and...other things are busy,” she trails off, suddenly unable to find the words when her mother is thousands of miles away, connected only by a telephone line and strenuous reception. She’s thrown enough news at them from across the Atlantic. But this is special, she thinks. This needs to be shared face to face, preferably with her head buried in the crook of her mothers elbow.
“Where are you?” she asks instead, because the noise in the background is both concerning and difficult to place. There’s the chatter of people talking, but also a constant sizzling, like a kitchen...
“I’m out to dinner with your father. He’s talking to the chef...they’re old friends. You know how he is,” her mother mutters fondly, “I’m standing in the kitchen.”
Mackenzie chuckles. Of course she would be there. “Was dinner nice?” she mumbles, looking around her office. She should eat something. The doctor told her she needs to improve her diet. But that requires movement that requires energy, and right now the only thing beating her hunger is her desire to crawl onto her lounge and sleep until the broadcast.
Down the telephone line her mother is describing the exact temperature the salmon was cooked at. Apparently she’s been speaking to the kitchen staff, no doubt befriending them in an instant. The McHale’s are nothing if not charming.
“Mum? I’m really tired and I have to get back to work,” she interrupts suddenly, “Do you mind if I speak to you later?”
Eloise McHale stumbles a moment, but then chuckles, “Of course darling. Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a bit off.”
Mackenzie’s throat tightens and she clenches a fist against the corner of the desk to keep herself grounded. Of course her mother would notice. That’s what they do.
“I’m fine mum. And I’ll think about Christmas,” she goes to hang up, but then, “I love you mum.”
“Love you too sweetheart.”
She feels a little better.
---
That night she dreams of the church again and the strong arms around her middle, only this time it’s the church of her English childhood and her parents are on the altar before her, dressed in robes. Her mother’s knelt before an empty manger and Mackenzie tries to turn in the mans arms, wanting to ask why they’re back in England and what on earth her parents are doing, but he’s locked steady around her waist and Mackenzie can’t figure out anything, least of all who he is.
She awakes breathless and parched in the middle of the night, and spends the next four hours curled on the couch watching infomercials despite her bone weary exhaustion.
At six she gets up and eats a bowl of dry cereal because it had seemed like a good idea in the lounge room. She’s been much less sick over the past few days, but by the time she’s finished she’s feeling nauseous and pissed off with the world because she just wanted breakfast, not bloody world peace, and is that so much to ask?
God forbid anyone cross her this morning, she thinks, because she can already tell it’s going to be hell.
---
Pregnancy isn’t that much different to operating out of a warzone, she decides around midday.
She’s constantly exhausted, though that’s beginning to lessen, she doesn’t eat enough and her body keeps sabotaging her attempts get through any routine.
Take for instance, she’s nearly 12 weeks along, and her breasts keep trying to escape out her bra. A month ago it wasn’t a problem she’d even considered, but now it’s all she can think about. Every time she leaves her office she finds herself conscious of them and the tightened feeling around her waist - she’s just waiting for someone to sneak up behind her and announce her news to the world.
She’s running late to a meeting and she’s not yet been out to buy a new bra (she’s steadfastly ignoring the thought of maternity clothes, because that’s terrifying) so everything feels out of place and both too tight but bouncy and all she wants to do is make it into her office to readjust.
“Mackenzie, stop!” Maggie yells.
She startles and freezes, whipping around to face the young woman.
Maggie has a box filled with small ornaments and spare tinsel on her desk that she insists everyone look through when ever they pass her by.
“I will, later!” Mackenzie tells her for the fifth time, holding up a hand pleadingly, and subtly trying to squash herself back into place. She was supposed to be at Charlie’s office ten minutes ago and she still has to grab her portfolio. Not to mention she hasn’t eaten since the early morning, which wouldn’t have been a problem a few months ago, but now it leaves her feeling hazy and lightheaded on top of her few hours sleep.
“Please Mac!” Maggie begs, and she makes the mistake of glancing down at the box.
There’s a little golden angel sitting a top a coil of red tinsel and Mackenzie can’t help but step towards it. She’s always been a sucker for shiny, glittery things.
“I kept that one for you,” Maggie tells her, grinning proudly.
Mackenzie chuckles, and nods in thanks.
She picks it up, but then notices a little tuft of hay peaking out from beneath it. It’s from a half complete nativity set; a wooden manger with hay and a soft blanket laying a top it. She picks it up and turns it over in her hand slowly; remembers seeing a larger one in church when she was little, tucked at the back near the entrance. In the weeks before Christmas it would always be empty, but then at midnight mass the baby Jesus would be carried towards it and laid to rest there, the Sheppard’s and the wise men and Mary and Joseph all gathered around under the angels. She’d been fascinated by nativity scenes when she was little, and always deathly jealous of the person who carried the baby up the aisle. She remembers begging her mother to let her join the children’s procession one year in the hopes it might be her.
“Can I have this?” she asks Maggie now, holding up the empty manger.
Maggie shrugs, “Sure. But I don’t know where the baby went,” she apologises.
Mackenzie smiles, “It doesn’t matter,” and steps back into her office. She sets the manger and the angel on the corner of her desk where she can see them and then with a huff shuffles everything back into place.
Her limbs are heavy and they ache and her stomach is growling. She knows she looks terrible. Will’s going to kill her when she finally gets to this meeting.
She picks up her portfolio and dashes back out of the room. It’s barely even passed midday and already she’s ready to kill someone.
---
Will’s on his way to find Mackenzie for their meeting with Charlie when she appears before him in the hallway, stormy faced and muttering, “I hate you,” over and over.
Will, to his credit, is sure he hasn’t done anything particularly thoughtless in the last week, and thus is startled from his path. He’s been extra carefully not to aggravate Mackenzie lest they lose the delicate equilibrium they’ve recently managed to create.
“Pray tell why?” he asks, confused.
Mackenzie pauses; cheeks flushed red and eyes bright. She shakes her head as if she’s only just now realized Will is standing before her. “You probably don’t want to know.”
Well, now he definitely does. “Mackenzie.”
She tugs at his sleeve, rolled up to the elbow, and drags him down the hallway into an empty office. She glances out the door before shutting it and then turns on him, hands flying.
“I hate you because my breasts are sore and my stomach keeps trying to climb up my throat even though that’s supposed to have stopped and my clothes are too tight and because I have to chose between all these tests to have done on our child and I have no idea what the right ones are, not to mention there are all these vitamins I’m supposed to be taking and I have to drink more milk, and I hate milk Will. I hate it.”
He remembers. She used to make faces at him across the breakfast bar when he’d pour it on top of his cereal.
Mackenzie sags against the door, her fists pulled up to her eyes as she takes a breath. “This is hard,” she mutters, trembling.
She was right; perhaps he didn’t want to know. But as with most things regarding her he doesn’t have a choice. And he’d be lying is he said he’s not been expecting this breakdown. “Come here,” he murmurs, gesturing her forward.
She tips towards him and buries her head in his neck like she’s trying to curl as close to him as possible. He’s always loved how she hugs, arms and legs and face all pressed up against him. He relishes the contact and brushes a kiss to her forehead.
“Breathe, Mackenzie,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. “Just breathe.”
---
They sit down over lunch in her office following the meeting and Will hazards towards her outburst.
“You mentioned tests, and vitamins?” he asks her, and he seems to be genuinely interested. (He’s done a few basic Google searches over the past couple of weeks. Re: he’s spent most nights on the internet for hours trying to learn as much as possible)
Mackenzie shrugs and makes a noise around a bite of salad. She can feel Will’s eyes on the leafy greens and then he holds up his sandwich. “Do you want some?”
She glares at him.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“I’m always tired Will.”
He pushes back from his desk and stifles a growl low in his throat. She immediately feels guilty. “Mackenzie, I’m just trying to -”
“I know,” she mumbles, chastised. She hopes he can hear the apology in her voice. She’s gotten very good at expressing them through her words and her manner.
She takes a breath and sets down her fork, leaning back in her chair and stretching.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. And I already feel like every muscle in my body is trying to pull apart at the seams, and even though the nauseas has gotten much better I still couldn’t eat my breakfast this morning,” she pauses, shaking her head.
“You know how terrified you’ve been?” she asks, and he nods mutely. They’ve discussed their fear enough to know it exists. “Well, not to complain, but I’ve got that, alongside every physical annoyance and ache you can imagine, constantly reminding me that I’m carrying a baby that will then be my child for the rest of my life.”
Will pauses around a bite of his sandwich. “I get it,” he nods, though she’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Not until he has to push a watermelon out of his body will she accept that he understands what she’s going through.
But she appreciates he’s trying and that he has his own set of issues to work through.
“Can we try something?” he asks her, breaking her internal rant.
She shrugs, setting down her fork. “It depends.”
“Come with me.”
He steps forward and pulls her up from her chair, walking her out the door and towards the elevators. He pushes the button for Charlie’s floor. “Where are we going?” she questions loudly.
Don passes by them and eyes them suspiciously.
When they’re in the elevator, safe and alone and with nowhere for her to escape, Will tells her.
“We’re going to tell Charlie.”
“No!” She pushes backwards, straight into the elevator wall. “No, no. Not now,” she begs. She’s really not ready to do this now. “Please Will!”
“We have to tell someone,” he hisses. “We’re both going insane and that can’t be normal. We’re telling Charlie.”
He grips her elbow and jostles her down the hallway when the elevator doors open. She drags her feet, hissing at him, “I fail to see how this is going to help.”
When they step into Charlie’s office he’s hanging up his phone and arches an eyebrow at them both. “What have you done?” he asks, looking between them both.
“We have something to tell you,” Will announces.
“We really don’t.”
“Mackenzie.”
Charlie chuckles. “This wouldn’t have something to do with what we discussed the other day?” he asks Will.
Mackenzie gasps and shoves his shoulder. “I didn’t say anything!” Will defends.
“He didn’t. But now I want you to tell me.”
The old man settles his hands before him and levels them both with a patient smile.
Mackenzie crumbles. She’s never been able to deny Charlie anything. She takes a breath.
“I’m pregnant.”
She was kind of expecting the world to implode, and is only a little disappointed when it doesn’t. Instead, Charlie’s eyes widen, and she takes a strange comfort in the knowledge that she’s shocked him.
“That was not what I was expecting.”
Will chuckles, “Evidently.”
“I’m assuming that because you’re not sobbing over a bottle of scotch that the child is yours?” Charlie asks, and Will looks sufficiently startled.
Mackenzie curls her arms around herself, meeting Charlie’s warm gaze. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Scared. Tired. Hungry. Mostly in that order.”
“If either one of you need anything, let me know,” Charlie tells her.
He stands and walks towards her and Mackenzie rocks back, uncertain of his movements. It’s not until he has an arm around her shoulder that she realises he’s hugging her, and then she melts into the embrace gratefully, pressing her nose to his shoulder to stifle her sob.
“Congratulations kids,” Charlie whispers to them both; and now she finally understands why Will made her do this.
For the first time in the last few weeks she actually stops and breathes.
---
It’s late and the evening’s broadcast was smooth.
Mackenzie is in her office turning the empty manger over and over in her hands, fingering the soft fabric laying a top it. At some point she’s going to have to start buying things for the baby. Maybe she can get Will to send someone to do that.
She slips an arm down her chest and holds a hand over her abdomen and then - holy hell, when did that happen?
She stops and strips open her shirt, staring down because right at the curve of her hipbones is a barely visible bump, just raised enough for her to notice.
She presses her hand back tentatively and brushes it down her skin. Her fingers shake, but they steady when she presses closer, and she remembers reading somewhere that if she prods her abdomen gently the baby will respond with movement. Not that she can feel anything, but soon she will, and the knowledge that there’s a little person swimming around happily and busily growing organs and such is both a terrifying trip and absolutely amazing.
She can’t help but giggle slightly, and rubs her fingers over the skin reverently.
“Mackenzie?”
She jumps. Will is at her door; she can see his outline through the opaque glass.
“Yes?”
She buttons her top hastily, just in time for him to push inside. He moves into the room and settles on the edge of her desk, arms crossed as he eyes her carefully.
“You feeling better?”
“Yes,” she tells him, “Thank you, for this afternoon. Both times, actually. I’ve been a bit of a mess all day.”
“You’re just tired,” Will murmurs, then, “Charlie’s happy.”
They share a smile. The old mans always been too invested in their relationship. Mackenzie stands, remembering her promise from a few days ago.
“Come here.”
Will steps forward without question, something she’s loath to think about so late in the evening, but she’s pretty sure he’d follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked him.
“I have a bump,” she whispers, conspiratorially.
Will’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t ask to touch and she doesn’t ask if he wants to. That’s crossing a line neither one of them is prepared to approach this evening. Enough has happened in the past 24 hours to propel their lives forward, but she wants to share this with him; this defining moment.
Their child is beginning to be seen by the world.
“You know it’s about the size of a lime,” Will tells her, conversationally, like they’re discussing the weather.
She giggles softly, but nods. She’s been doing her googling too.
“This week it should be practicing how to curl it’s fingers and toes.”
“Knowing us it’s probably doing neither of those things,” she ponders.
“Please, it would have figured that out weeks ago.”
She snorts, because it’s late and this conversation is clearly getting ridiculous.
“Thank you for pushing me,” she tells him instead, sobering quickly. “I needed that.”
She hopes he understands. He shrugs, but it’s a cute, little shuffle of his shoulder, and she thinks perhaps he does. She thinks perhaps he’s the only person who’s ever really understood her fears and uncertainties. Her mother, maybe, is the other one. Because that’s what mothers do - they understand.
“Will,” she murmurs, voice catching. Because she knows now what she has to do, she just doesn’t know if he’s going to like it.
“Yeah?”
“Over Christmas, I know there’s the party, but I don’t think I’m going to be there.”
He furrows his eyebrows, his lips frowning, “Mackenzie, we just -“
“I know. But I spoke to my mother yesterday. I miss her. I think I’m going to go to London.”
Will is silent, unblinking; his eyes seep into her soul.
He huffs and then shrugs. After all, he’s unable to stop her.
---
That night she dreams of the church and the candles and the cold seeping down towards her toes.
She presses back and the mans arms tighten around her. She wishes she knew who he was; or perhaps just why everything is so familiar.
In the light of day she knows, but in her dreams she’s lost; her arms feel light and liable to float away if not for him holding her. He squeezes around her middle and presses a kiss to her hair and through the hazy light, he whispers.
“Soon.”
Rating: M
Pairing: Will/Mackenzie
Summary: It’s not planned. But then again she isn’t sure what she expected when she agreed to eat those cookies. First on her list had been hearing the rest of his message, and when his request had been that she join him, possibly in the hope that neither of them would remember, she’d thought very little beyond what she wanted to know or what the consequences might reap.
With The Dawn of Redeeming Grace, Part 1
---
She dreams of Christmas and of Midnight Mass and of being frozen to her fingertips at the back of church some years ago.
Candles flicker in the corner of her vision and everything is hazy and distorted and oversaturated in a way that only dreams can be; the smell of incense burns down her throat and she has to squint to see before her. People are pressed in tight, bundled in their winter coats and muzzy with sleep in the early morning. She’s jostled from side to side as they stand and only the steady warmth of a strong arm around her middle keeps her from toppling forwards.
“Steady now,” a voice rumbles in her ear; a cheek is pressed to the back of her head and when she leans back there’s a solid chest to rest upon. “Are you cold?” the voice asks her.
She nods imperceptibly, just as the organ swells and the church erupts in a chorus; Ode To Joy soaring to the eaves overhanging and swirling around her heart. She nestles into the warm chest and feels hands squeeze her middle - lips press to the soft skin beneath her ear; a warm spike against the cold that’s settled in her bones.
She hums and feels him gather her closer.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” he murmurs adoringly.
When she wakes her room is cold and empty; but out the closed window she swears she can hear music. It strains gently against the backdrop of New York, the distant rumble of cars down the road and the odd screech or shout. She stretches against her sheets and shifts a hand down her stomach slowly, resting against her belly and pressing in softly.
“Hello,” she murmurs, “How are you this morning?”
---
Mackenzie’s first memory is waking in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport days after Christmas, curled on the leather seats with her bottom in the air, her arms and legs tucked underneath her.
According to her mother she’s slept like that ever since her little back was able to support her body, and when she’d woke to the hustle of feet in the gate, she’d propped herself up on her elbows, blinking wearily. Her mother was seated next to her, flicking idly through the paper and her fingers drifted gently through Mackenzie’s fringe. Her father was pacing back and forth at the end of the aisle and muttering to himself with a folder in hand whilst her brother skipped back and forth, always two steps behind him.
Mackenzie doesn’t remember much more than that; only the waking and seeing her family - but for the longest time she’d believed that’s where she started - that her first instance of life was opening her eyes in the airport lounge before boarding a flight back to New York.
When she was four and a half her father’s extended family had joined them for the holidays. The men were loud and robust, such a difference to the reserved adults she was used to encountering with her parents, and her uncles had taken utter delight in leaning down to her level to ask her questions.
“Where are you from, Mackenzie?” they’d stirred, “Are you English, or are you American?”
Mackenzie had scowled. “No. I’m from the airport,” in her mangled English/American cadence.
The men had laughed and then turned to her father, deftly rolling cigarettes by the bar. “You’ve got yourself a little troublemaker, Eddy!” they’d told him, and Mackenzie hadn’t understood why.
Her father had merely lifted his head and nodded; but he’d winked at her later and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“My little airport girl,” he’d murmured. To this day he still calls her that to tease.
---
This year Christmas arrives without Mackenzie noticing - a blasphemous thought, as she’s usually much better prepared.
Mackenzie loves Christmas. Loves the snow and the tinsel and the lights strung through tress. She loves hearing carols in the evening and wearing thick sweaters and socks in her apartment; loves buying presents for her niece and nephews to send back to England and seeing their bright faces over the computer on Christmas morning.
When she was a little girl her parents would take her and her brother to church at midnight. Just as in her dream she remembers the smell of candles and incense and the golden hue of candlelight through the stained glass windows.
She remembers kneeling down between her mother and father and not being able to see over the pew in front of her. In frustration she’d curl up on the floor with her colouring books and try to understand what the man at the altar was saying. His voice was always so loud and deep; a constant drone in the otherwise silent church, and Mackenzie remembers wishing he would be silent so she could try and hear Santa’s sleigh above the rooftops.
She would wear her best dress on Christmas Eve, a deep red with a satin bow around the middle, thick cream stockings and shiny black buckled shoes. They clicked on the pavement and she used to love stomping up the stone pavers to the church’s open doors, tip-tap, tip-tap, all the way down the aisle.
It’s not that she forgets Christmas this year- it would be hard to with the lights and decorations that are strung through the city - rather she doesn’t realise the day is almost upon them until she arrives at work to find tinsel hanging from her doorway.
“Maggie went a little overboard,” Will tells her, leant against the wall with his arms crossed.
She runs a finger down a line of tinsel, feels the shiny bristles tickle her palm, and then turns to him, smiling. “We could all do with a little Christmas spirit,” she tells him.
Will snorts. “You don’t think Rudolph over there is a bit much?”
She turns and finds a life size reindeer figurine standing by the Christmas tree in the corner. It has an eerily crooked red mouth painted on, and someone has covered it in fairy lights that blink in random patterns.
“Maggie named him Jim,” Will tells her, mocking only slightly.
Of course she did. Mackenzie resists the urge to roll her eyes.
Their song and dance hasn’t ended despite Maggie moving in with Don. Jim’s been tight lipped about what happened, but Mackenzie is sure she’ll get it out of him sometime. And then there’s Sloan, who’s been unusually quiet lately. She drops by Mackenzie’s office not nearly as much as she once had and Mackenzie misses her sporadic companionship throughout the day.
“I’ve been thinking,” Will starts, pushing from the wall resolutely and bringing her from her thoughts.
She turns back to him, arching an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t do too much of that Will. You might strain something.”
He deftly ignores her. Instead he nudges her gently into her office and she goes without complaint. “What have you been thinking?” she prompts.
“Coat?”
It takes her a second to realise she’s still wearing one. He steps forward and with ease unpeels it from her shoulders, catching the heavy fabric at her elbows to pull it backwards and off her arms. He’s pressed against her back and all she can think of is those arms wrapped around her in the freezing cold; the clocking ticking past midnight and the rich scent of christmas in the air and all around her.
“Will, what were you thinking?” she asks him, voice rough and catching at the end. She swallows past the thick lump in her throat and instead focuses on his face as he turns her towards him.
“We should tell them at the Christmas party.”
She nods without thinking but then processes his words, freezing.
“Tell them what?”
Will furrows his brow. He folds her coat with ease and places it over the back of her chair. Usually she hangs it by the door but she’s loath to complain when he’s in such a mood. Instead she sits at her desk and eyes him carefully.
“About the baby, Mackenzie.”
It’s the first time he’s said it with such ease. They’ve spent hours at work and over the phone at night edging closer to discussing the matter, but the careless way he throws out the term - acknowledging that this pregnancy actually leads to something, it’s not just a nine month challenge - leaves her breathless.
“Yes,” she says, now understanding.
She opens her mouth to continue, but nothing emerges, so she shuts it.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell everyone. She’s almost neared the end of her first trimester, and whilst she’s not showing yet, it won’t be long before she does. And it would make sense to tell their team over the holidays- give everyone a few days to work it through their system before they return to work, she rationalises.
She’d thought she was prepared for this moment. Had anticipated Will refusing to tell anyone or distancing himself. But her blood feels like it freezes at the very thought of exposing their secret - her body locks and her stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness; and the whole physical breakdown catches her completely by surprise. After all, she’s the one who’s supposed to be level headed about it all.
She stammers an answer, “Okay, yes,” wincing at her uncertainty. Will seems so at ease with everything now, like he’s breezed through the utter terror they first went through. He’s watching her closely but the tone of his voice is as if they were discussing the rundown.
“Mackenzie?” he prods gently. She’s focused just passed his head, refusing to meet his eye as her fingers curl.
“Hmmm? No, It’s a good idea,” she nods quickly, hoping he doesn’t continue.
“Mackenzie.” Of course he does. Which is fair, she admits - she is acting like a child.
“I’m just scared,” she tells him quickly, “That’s all. I’m allowed to be scared about telling people.”
Will is silent, leant back in his chair. He watches her carefully and she feels like a bug beneath the microscope. She always feels like that when he’s considering her.
“I am too,” he finally tells her, and despite his apparent ease she does believe him. He’s always been a master at hiding his feelings, and the last four weeks have been no exception.
“But we don’t have a choice,” he tells her gently.
And in the end that’s what everything keeps coming down to.
She shuffles the papers by her computer and nods at him, hoping to signal the end of the conversation. She needs time to think and prepare and to have a quiet breakdown before the day starts.
So, after Christmas everyone will know they’re having a child. It’s not like she could keep it a secret. But the step between her knowing and the step between her and Will knowing had been an easy one to bridge in the end; she’s pretty sure she’s no longer capable of keeping secrets from him.
But the step between them and the rest of the team? That feels like the space between tall mountains. Tall mountains separated by hemispheres. Or maybe planets. She hasn’t decided.
Other people knowing settles the weight of responsibility and reality firmly on her shoulders. She wasn’t kidding when she’d told Will that three years was the longest she’d signed up for anything.
And having a kid? Yeah, that’s a full time, rest of your life, sort of contract. She’s never been very good at anticipating that far into the future. Sometimes she barely remembers what her plans are for the coming week.
Before her, Will claps his hands on his knees and stands, walking towards her doorway. He pauses at the last minute, turning back, and she wishes he would just leave so she can start worrying in private.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?” he asks quickly, eyes deftly avoiding her gaze.
She cocks her head to the side and tries to hide her smile; despite everything she does finds his quiet concern lovely. Annoying, she ponders for a brief second, but lovely.
She’d been worried it might be smothering, but the moments are few and far between. Occasionally he will glance towards her in meetings, eyes shifting to her stomach and then back; he keeps interrupting her around lunchtime or casually mentioning dinner, hands her water bottles as they broadcast and once even asked how she’d slept. Each time he does it with an awkward little shuffle, avoiding her gaze until the last minute, and she’s steadily beginning to understand that this is his way of easing into the pregnancy - she’s not going to deny him that small part, no matter how startling it might be.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she tells him now, “More tired than usual, but I’ve been told that will ease.”
Will nods, running a hand through his hair. “Good,” he smiles genuinely. He goes to leave.
“Will you do something for me?” he asks quickly, and she startles.
“Yes Will,” she huffs, humoring him.
He shuffles a foot back and forth and Mackenzie’s breath catches as she realises he’s actually nervous. She’s not a fool; she knows how insecure he can be, but there’s a quiet, uncommon strength in his words and actions that she wishes he would see in himself.
“Tell me when you start noticing things?” he asks quickly.
His face is blank but his eyes are soft; unguarded in this small moment between them. Mackenzie nods without thinking and then fights to speak through her blooming smile. “Yes, of course. I promise.”
He nods once and then walks out, leaving her office. She turns back to her computer and begins the day.
---
She calls her mother that afternoon because there’s a small part in every girl that wants curl up in their mother’s arms when they’re scared.
She thinks perhaps that if she can get through this phone call that she’ll be able to handle anything, but then the phones ringing and her mothers picking up and she’s halfway towards the words, “I’m pregnant,” when Eloise McHale starts babbling.
“Please say you’re ringing to tell me you’re coming to London for Christmas,” her mother pleads. There’s a loud bang accompanying her words from somewhere in the distance. Mackenzie finds herself standing in her office, mouth closing and frowning steadily at the phone.
“No,” she says, voice tilting up at the end. “Am I?”
“Your father and I are going to visit your brother and we’d love to have you here darling. The four of us haven’t had Christmas together since before you went away and the last time you saw the children was -”
“Your anniversary, I know,” Mackenzie mumbles. Her mother has the amazing ability to make her feel guilty about nearly everything. Neither of her parents had been impressed when she took the job in Afghanistan; instead they refer to it as her time away. Like she’d been on holidays in Hawaii, or as a correspondent in Paris, or Madrid. Not operating out of Islamabad and getting stabbed whilst attempting to take footage in the middle of a protest. Apparently two Peabody’s mean nothing to your parents when you’re working in the middle of a war.
Will I be like that, she wonders, suddenly. Utterly terrified by her child’s safety? She supposes that’s what their reticence was.
It’s probably not the nicest thing to tell your parents over the phone - Hi mum and dad, you know that man you thought I was going to marry, that one you really liked? Well, I stuffed that up so now I’m moving to Afghanistan. Be back soon, Love you!
“I’ll think about it,” she tells her mother now, “Work is busy, and...other things are busy,” she trails off, suddenly unable to find the words when her mother is thousands of miles away, connected only by a telephone line and strenuous reception. She’s thrown enough news at them from across the Atlantic. But this is special, she thinks. This needs to be shared face to face, preferably with her head buried in the crook of her mothers elbow.
“Where are you?” she asks instead, because the noise in the background is both concerning and difficult to place. There’s the chatter of people talking, but also a constant sizzling, like a kitchen...
“I’m out to dinner with your father. He’s talking to the chef...they’re old friends. You know how he is,” her mother mutters fondly, “I’m standing in the kitchen.”
Mackenzie chuckles. Of course she would be there. “Was dinner nice?” she mumbles, looking around her office. She should eat something. The doctor told her she needs to improve her diet. But that requires movement that requires energy, and right now the only thing beating her hunger is her desire to crawl onto her lounge and sleep until the broadcast.
Down the telephone line her mother is describing the exact temperature the salmon was cooked at. Apparently she’s been speaking to the kitchen staff, no doubt befriending them in an instant. The McHale’s are nothing if not charming.
“Mum? I’m really tired and I have to get back to work,” she interrupts suddenly, “Do you mind if I speak to you later?”
Eloise McHale stumbles a moment, but then chuckles, “Of course darling. Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a bit off.”
Mackenzie’s throat tightens and she clenches a fist against the corner of the desk to keep herself grounded. Of course her mother would notice. That’s what they do.
“I’m fine mum. And I’ll think about Christmas,” she goes to hang up, but then, “I love you mum.”
“Love you too sweetheart.”
She feels a little better.
---
That night she dreams of the church again and the strong arms around her middle, only this time it’s the church of her English childhood and her parents are on the altar before her, dressed in robes. Her mother’s knelt before an empty manger and Mackenzie tries to turn in the mans arms, wanting to ask why they’re back in England and what on earth her parents are doing, but he’s locked steady around her waist and Mackenzie can’t figure out anything, least of all who he is.
She awakes breathless and parched in the middle of the night, and spends the next four hours curled on the couch watching infomercials despite her bone weary exhaustion.
At six she gets up and eats a bowl of dry cereal because it had seemed like a good idea in the lounge room. She’s been much less sick over the past few days, but by the time she’s finished she’s feeling nauseous and pissed off with the world because she just wanted breakfast, not bloody world peace, and is that so much to ask?
God forbid anyone cross her this morning, she thinks, because she can already tell it’s going to be hell.
---
Pregnancy isn’t that much different to operating out of a warzone, she decides around midday.
She’s constantly exhausted, though that’s beginning to lessen, she doesn’t eat enough and her body keeps sabotaging her attempts get through any routine.
Take for instance, she’s nearly 12 weeks along, and her breasts keep trying to escape out her bra. A month ago it wasn’t a problem she’d even considered, but now it’s all she can think about. Every time she leaves her office she finds herself conscious of them and the tightened feeling around her waist - she’s just waiting for someone to sneak up behind her and announce her news to the world.
She’s running late to a meeting and she’s not yet been out to buy a new bra (she’s steadfastly ignoring the thought of maternity clothes, because that’s terrifying) so everything feels out of place and both too tight but bouncy and all she wants to do is make it into her office to readjust.
“Mackenzie, stop!” Maggie yells.
She startles and freezes, whipping around to face the young woman.
Maggie has a box filled with small ornaments and spare tinsel on her desk that she insists everyone look through when ever they pass her by.
“I will, later!” Mackenzie tells her for the fifth time, holding up a hand pleadingly, and subtly trying to squash herself back into place. She was supposed to be at Charlie’s office ten minutes ago and she still has to grab her portfolio. Not to mention she hasn’t eaten since the early morning, which wouldn’t have been a problem a few months ago, but now it leaves her feeling hazy and lightheaded on top of her few hours sleep.
“Please Mac!” Maggie begs, and she makes the mistake of glancing down at the box.
There’s a little golden angel sitting a top a coil of red tinsel and Mackenzie can’t help but step towards it. She’s always been a sucker for shiny, glittery things.
“I kept that one for you,” Maggie tells her, grinning proudly.
Mackenzie chuckles, and nods in thanks.
She picks it up, but then notices a little tuft of hay peaking out from beneath it. It’s from a half complete nativity set; a wooden manger with hay and a soft blanket laying a top it. She picks it up and turns it over in her hand slowly; remembers seeing a larger one in church when she was little, tucked at the back near the entrance. In the weeks before Christmas it would always be empty, but then at midnight mass the baby Jesus would be carried towards it and laid to rest there, the Sheppard’s and the wise men and Mary and Joseph all gathered around under the angels. She’d been fascinated by nativity scenes when she was little, and always deathly jealous of the person who carried the baby up the aisle. She remembers begging her mother to let her join the children’s procession one year in the hopes it might be her.
“Can I have this?” she asks Maggie now, holding up the empty manger.
Maggie shrugs, “Sure. But I don’t know where the baby went,” she apologises.
Mackenzie smiles, “It doesn’t matter,” and steps back into her office. She sets the manger and the angel on the corner of her desk where she can see them and then with a huff shuffles everything back into place.
Her limbs are heavy and they ache and her stomach is growling. She knows she looks terrible. Will’s going to kill her when she finally gets to this meeting.
She picks up her portfolio and dashes back out of the room. It’s barely even passed midday and already she’s ready to kill someone.
---
Will’s on his way to find Mackenzie for their meeting with Charlie when she appears before him in the hallway, stormy faced and muttering, “I hate you,” over and over.
Will, to his credit, is sure he hasn’t done anything particularly thoughtless in the last week, and thus is startled from his path. He’s been extra carefully not to aggravate Mackenzie lest they lose the delicate equilibrium they’ve recently managed to create.
“Pray tell why?” he asks, confused.
Mackenzie pauses; cheeks flushed red and eyes bright. She shakes her head as if she’s only just now realized Will is standing before her. “You probably don’t want to know.”
Well, now he definitely does. “Mackenzie.”
She tugs at his sleeve, rolled up to the elbow, and drags him down the hallway into an empty office. She glances out the door before shutting it and then turns on him, hands flying.
“I hate you because my breasts are sore and my stomach keeps trying to climb up my throat even though that’s supposed to have stopped and my clothes are too tight and because I have to chose between all these tests to have done on our child and I have no idea what the right ones are, not to mention there are all these vitamins I’m supposed to be taking and I have to drink more milk, and I hate milk Will. I hate it.”
He remembers. She used to make faces at him across the breakfast bar when he’d pour it on top of his cereal.
Mackenzie sags against the door, her fists pulled up to her eyes as she takes a breath. “This is hard,” she mutters, trembling.
She was right; perhaps he didn’t want to know. But as with most things regarding her he doesn’t have a choice. And he’d be lying is he said he’s not been expecting this breakdown. “Come here,” he murmurs, gesturing her forward.
She tips towards him and buries her head in his neck like she’s trying to curl as close to him as possible. He’s always loved how she hugs, arms and legs and face all pressed up against him. He relishes the contact and brushes a kiss to her forehead.
“Breathe, Mackenzie,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. “Just breathe.”
---
They sit down over lunch in her office following the meeting and Will hazards towards her outburst.
“You mentioned tests, and vitamins?” he asks her, and he seems to be genuinely interested. (He’s done a few basic Google searches over the past couple of weeks. Re: he’s spent most nights on the internet for hours trying to learn as much as possible)
Mackenzie shrugs and makes a noise around a bite of salad. She can feel Will’s eyes on the leafy greens and then he holds up his sandwich. “Do you want some?”
She glares at him.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“I’m always tired Will.”
He pushes back from his desk and stifles a growl low in his throat. She immediately feels guilty. “Mackenzie, I’m just trying to -”
“I know,” she mumbles, chastised. She hopes he can hear the apology in her voice. She’s gotten very good at expressing them through her words and her manner.
She takes a breath and sets down her fork, leaning back in her chair and stretching.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. And I already feel like every muscle in my body is trying to pull apart at the seams, and even though the nauseas has gotten much better I still couldn’t eat my breakfast this morning,” she pauses, shaking her head.
“You know how terrified you’ve been?” she asks, and he nods mutely. They’ve discussed their fear enough to know it exists. “Well, not to complain, but I’ve got that, alongside every physical annoyance and ache you can imagine, constantly reminding me that I’m carrying a baby that will then be my child for the rest of my life.”
Will pauses around a bite of his sandwich. “I get it,” he nods, though she’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Not until he has to push a watermelon out of his body will she accept that he understands what she’s going through.
But she appreciates he’s trying and that he has his own set of issues to work through.
“Can we try something?” he asks her, breaking her internal rant.
She shrugs, setting down her fork. “It depends.”
“Come with me.”
He steps forward and pulls her up from her chair, walking her out the door and towards the elevators. He pushes the button for Charlie’s floor. “Where are we going?” she questions loudly.
Don passes by them and eyes them suspiciously.
When they’re in the elevator, safe and alone and with nowhere for her to escape, Will tells her.
“We’re going to tell Charlie.”
“No!” She pushes backwards, straight into the elevator wall. “No, no. Not now,” she begs. She’s really not ready to do this now. “Please Will!”
“We have to tell someone,” he hisses. “We’re both going insane and that can’t be normal. We’re telling Charlie.”
He grips her elbow and jostles her down the hallway when the elevator doors open. She drags her feet, hissing at him, “I fail to see how this is going to help.”
When they step into Charlie’s office he’s hanging up his phone and arches an eyebrow at them both. “What have you done?” he asks, looking between them both.
“We have something to tell you,” Will announces.
“We really don’t.”
“Mackenzie.”
Charlie chuckles. “This wouldn’t have something to do with what we discussed the other day?” he asks Will.
Mackenzie gasps and shoves his shoulder. “I didn’t say anything!” Will defends.
“He didn’t. But now I want you to tell me.”
The old man settles his hands before him and levels them both with a patient smile.
Mackenzie crumbles. She’s never been able to deny Charlie anything. She takes a breath.
“I’m pregnant.”
She was kind of expecting the world to implode, and is only a little disappointed when it doesn’t. Instead, Charlie’s eyes widen, and she takes a strange comfort in the knowledge that she’s shocked him.
“That was not what I was expecting.”
Will chuckles, “Evidently.”
“I’m assuming that because you’re not sobbing over a bottle of scotch that the child is yours?” Charlie asks, and Will looks sufficiently startled.
Mackenzie curls her arms around herself, meeting Charlie’s warm gaze. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Scared. Tired. Hungry. Mostly in that order.”
“If either one of you need anything, let me know,” Charlie tells her.
He stands and walks towards her and Mackenzie rocks back, uncertain of his movements. It’s not until he has an arm around her shoulder that she realises he’s hugging her, and then she melts into the embrace gratefully, pressing her nose to his shoulder to stifle her sob.
“Congratulations kids,” Charlie whispers to them both; and now she finally understands why Will made her do this.
For the first time in the last few weeks she actually stops and breathes.
---
It’s late and the evening’s broadcast was smooth.
Mackenzie is in her office turning the empty manger over and over in her hands, fingering the soft fabric laying a top it. At some point she’s going to have to start buying things for the baby. Maybe she can get Will to send someone to do that.
She slips an arm down her chest and holds a hand over her abdomen and then - holy hell, when did that happen?
She stops and strips open her shirt, staring down because right at the curve of her hipbones is a barely visible bump, just raised enough for her to notice.
She presses her hand back tentatively and brushes it down her skin. Her fingers shake, but they steady when she presses closer, and she remembers reading somewhere that if she prods her abdomen gently the baby will respond with movement. Not that she can feel anything, but soon she will, and the knowledge that there’s a little person swimming around happily and busily growing organs and such is both a terrifying trip and absolutely amazing.
She can’t help but giggle slightly, and rubs her fingers over the skin reverently.
“Mackenzie?”
She jumps. Will is at her door; she can see his outline through the opaque glass.
“Yes?”
She buttons her top hastily, just in time for him to push inside. He moves into the room and settles on the edge of her desk, arms crossed as he eyes her carefully.
“You feeling better?”
“Yes,” she tells him, “Thank you, for this afternoon. Both times, actually. I’ve been a bit of a mess all day.”
“You’re just tired,” Will murmurs, then, “Charlie’s happy.”
They share a smile. The old mans always been too invested in their relationship. Mackenzie stands, remembering her promise from a few days ago.
“Come here.”
Will steps forward without question, something she’s loath to think about so late in the evening, but she’s pretty sure he’d follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked him.
“I have a bump,” she whispers, conspiratorially.
Will’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t ask to touch and she doesn’t ask if he wants to. That’s crossing a line neither one of them is prepared to approach this evening. Enough has happened in the past 24 hours to propel their lives forward, but she wants to share this with him; this defining moment.
Their child is beginning to be seen by the world.
“You know it’s about the size of a lime,” Will tells her, conversationally, like they’re discussing the weather.
She giggles softly, but nods. She’s been doing her googling too.
“This week it should be practicing how to curl it’s fingers and toes.”
“Knowing us it’s probably doing neither of those things,” she ponders.
“Please, it would have figured that out weeks ago.”
She snorts, because it’s late and this conversation is clearly getting ridiculous.
“Thank you for pushing me,” she tells him instead, sobering quickly. “I needed that.”
She hopes he understands. He shrugs, but it’s a cute, little shuffle of his shoulder, and she thinks perhaps he does. She thinks perhaps he’s the only person who’s ever really understood her fears and uncertainties. Her mother, maybe, is the other one. Because that’s what mothers do - they understand.
“Will,” she murmurs, voice catching. Because she knows now what she has to do, she just doesn’t know if he’s going to like it.
“Yeah?”
“Over Christmas, I know there’s the party, but I don’t think I’m going to be there.”
He furrows his eyebrows, his lips frowning, “Mackenzie, we just -“
“I know. But I spoke to my mother yesterday. I miss her. I think I’m going to go to London.”
Will is silent, unblinking; his eyes seep into her soul.
He huffs and then shrugs. After all, he’s unable to stop her.
---
That night she dreams of the church and the candles and the cold seeping down towards her toes.
She presses back and the mans arms tighten around her. She wishes she knew who he was; or perhaps just why everything is so familiar.
In the light of day she knows, but in her dreams she’s lost; her arms feel light and liable to float away if not for him holding her. He squeezes around her middle and presses a kiss to her hair and through the hazy light, he whispers.
“Soon.”