[The Newsroom] Chasing the Graveyard
Chasing the Graveyard
The Newsroom. Mac/Will. PG-13, for angst/the apocolypse and (major) character death. General spoilers for the series. AU. 849 words. Title from a random title generator because titles make my brain hurt and here have some fic. There is no phone, no breaking news, just a dead battery and the same dismal outlook.
*
"Mac you're shivering."
When she doesn't respond to him he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. He's not trying to be chivalrous, he's concerned. She doesn't need him to say anything to know that, it shows clearly in the lines etched on his face.
"You should come inside. Jim's about to start telling stories about Pakistan and someone brought up another box of donuts."
"Yeah," she forces the word out past her teeth with her tongue and attempts a nod. "I'm... air. I'll be right in."
"Ok."
He lingers and she nods again. "Ok."
By the time she makes it inside, Jim has moved on to the Romney bus and the donuts are nothing but crumbs. She doesn't ask about either and slips into her seat at the head of the table.
They've been working a lot of overtime lately and she's not about to criticize them for the festive atmosphere. They had all taken the morning off, and while most of them had been in the office since early afternoon, they're only settling down now that that they're pushing early evening.
"Updates?" she enquires automatically allowing the rush of information to flow over her. Will seems to be sorting through it without her so she lets him take the reins for the time being.
**
She sleeps with her head tucked against his shoulder because it's the only way she can stop shaking. Will jokes about her needing to lay off the caffeine but they both know there's more to it than that. They've had to switch to backup power three times in the last week, and the world outside their windows has lost its luster, the setting sun blood red in the sky as she slips into oblivion.
The broadcasts still occur on schedule but everything else is slipping into chaos. Will had run out of cigarettes on Tuesday and Mac had had to send Neal to clean out the corner bodega. She's not sure what she's going to do when next Tuesday rolls around. She can't remember the last time any of them spent more than a few hours outside the office. She can't remember the last time she slept in a bed.
She sleeps fitfully, waking often, only drifting off again when the sound of Will's pen scratching against paper reaches her ears. He's old fashioned when it comes to writing his script. She's always found that comforting for some reason, but now she clings to it. As long as he keeps writing, there's still news to report. As long as she has the news.
***
She brushes past the curtain of shimmering gems and steals through the living room on socked feet. She scoops up the shoes she's left by the door, old and worn, not the kind of shoes she wants to show up to work wearing, but there's no way she's about to go digging through the closet she had appropriated looking for another pair.
The street outside is deserted, the dark beginning to break up as the drizzling rain begins to lessen. It's two dozen blocks but she takes them at a steady clip, the arches of her feet aching in the too flat shoes. She's used to wearing heels and pencil skirts not worn tennis shoes and jeans. There's a hole starting in one knee of her jeans and she can feel the air push through the frayed fibers as the wind rustles the trash collecting along the curb.
She's half expecting the phone in her pocket to buzz, Will admonishing her for making the trip alone, or Charlie wondering when she was going to tell them about the story they were breaking that night. There is no phone, no breaking news, just a dead battery and the same dismal outlook.
Thousands dead, blown out windows, looters, and sidewalks covered in glass. Soon she would have to stop ignoring the mass graves, the dead CDC, and the suicides of military leaders. New York was a shadow, a fragment still clinging to the memory of the whole.
****
She lets her pen linger over the mostly empty page, watches the way the ink spatters as she shakes it too hard letting out a deep breath. She shouldn't be wasting paper like this but it keeps her focused on something that isn't the way her heart keeps racing in her chest and her blood roars in her ears. If Jim were here he would tell her to breathe and remind her of the first time they had taken live fire. She'd lived through that and come through it with a shit eating grin on her face. This couldn't be any worse than that. It couldn't but if she tried smiling now she thinks she might puke.
She glances down at the ink spattered page and the few words she had penned. I've known Jim for what feels like a lifetime. He (VAMP). Jim was Jim was-
She balls up the page and tosses furiously against the window beside her. She'll drown in a see of yellow paper before she finishes that sentence.
Originally posted on Dreamwidth (
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