fic: trailblazers
TRAILBLAZERS: part ii, hedgerow betting.
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, pg-13.
jazz age au - the world has changed, now, and not for the better.
PART TWO: HEDGEROW BETTING.
New York, 1932. The world has changed, now, and not for the better. It has been 3 years since the crash, since Mackenzie, and if you listen to Charlie Skinner, 3 years since he was a nice guy.
She stands in his office. Her hair's longer than it was three years previous, softer waves curling around her shoulders. She pulls a face, 'I told you it would all end in tears.'
'I didn't think you meant mine.' He can sense her sizing him up: how kind have the years been? how's the bank balance these days?
'What I did, Will- '
'-was reprehensible.'
'Yes! But you have to know, I'm sorry.' He doesn't miss the desperation in her voice. She's sent him letters, and he'll lie if she asks, but he's read them too.
Instead he throws out his arms, 'That makes it all alright, then.'
'Will!' She says, shouts, and there's an aching memory of the snap of his name from her lips, her thighs clamped tight around his hips and hands scrambling for purchase across his back. His blinks and Mackenzie says again, 'Will! Please. We have a chance here, to put things right.'
Between us?
Between the world.
Both.
'3 years.' He says, 'And she hasn't been in New York. I'd've heard about it.'
'She got to London while the going was still good, found herself a decent job at The Times sending dispatches from India.'
I don't want her here, he tells Charlie.
The older man sighs, 'She's exhausted, Will.' And then he adds, 'She wants to come home.' To you.
Mackenzie has ideas, of course. She berates him for going soft, the twenties are over now and there's no use pining for them, she says, just ask Sloan Sabbith. 'Sloan Sabbith,' he frowns, 'Who's he?'
'She.' Mac corrects, waits for it to register. She's slumped in his chair, hair pulled back into a bun. Her slacks have slid off her waist and settled at her hips, revealing a pearly peel of skin. 'And she doesn't think we're at the bottom yet.'
He tears his eyes from her midriff. She notices. 'How does Ms Sabbith know this?'
'Ask her yourself. She's next door.'
The thirties suit Sloan Sabbith. She wears her skirts full and high at the waist, her hair cropped an inch shorter than Mac's. She smiles at the other woman when they enter, a nod of recognition directed to him.
'It's going to get worse before it gets better.' she explains, twisting her gloves in her fingers.
'It's the economy, not the weather.' He says, but Sloan holds his gaze.
'No,' she agrees, 'It's less predictable.'
'Find her a desk.' Mac turns to him, hands set on her hips, jaw set and her meaning is clear: fuck with me, William McAvoy, and I will end you.
Plot twist: she already has.
Don't be coy, you know how this unfolds. The economy finally slumps into the grave in December 1932.
'Now what?' He says.
'We wait,' says Sloan. He glances sideways at his ex-girlfriend, sitting silent and still in the corner.
'For what?' Mac speaks, slowly and deliberately. She's trying very hard to look as though she understands, and he fights the urge to laugh.
'A miracle.' Sloan shrugs.
Mac stands, pushes her sleeves up her arms. 'I want your finished copy by 3. Sloan gets the front page.'
'I'm on a mission to civilise.' He announces. It's 1933, Hitler lurking on the horizon, or rather, page 4. The economy's better, though Sloan assures him it's all relative and won't last.
She ignores him. 'I think we should lead with Germany.'
'The economy's good news, though.'
Her arms are folded tight and she scowls. 'Did a single syllable of what I said last year permeate your skull?'
In truth, he can quote it by heart. 'There was something about Don Quixote's donkey.'
'He rode a horse.' She's already halfway out the door. 'I checked. In the original French.'
'Spanish!'
March 4, 1933. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself, decrees Roosevelt. Mac catches his eye.
'And Jellyfish.' He says, and her nose creases when she giggles.
‘It’s your patriotic duty,’ she replies, ‘Not to make me laugh during an inauguration speech.’ His fingers graze her knuckles, an old habit, and she slides him a look he can’t quite read. It’s times like this he can forget, just for a second, that what happened happened.
Somehow it makes it hurt all the more.
The Hundred Day Congress adjourns on June 16th and he wonders if, finally, peace is descending.
Don’t laugh, of course it’s not.
‘We’re in the magazines all the time, Charlie! They report on New York culture and Will is New York culture. A party’s not a party until some journalist’s name-checked Will McAvoy with some film star hanging off his arm.’
‘That’s the point he’s trying to make,’ he says, and Mac’s head snaps towards him.
‘I am defending you!’
‘Well you shouldn’t be.’
Charlie raises a hand, enough. Get back to work.
She doesn’t knock when she enters, let’s the door slam behind her before she speaks. ‘You brought Brian here to write a piece about the paper.’
He doesn’t look up. ‘I did.’
‘Why the fuck did you do that?’
'I said clearly: no smut or salacity.' He says. He looks at her, now, watches her pace in front of his desk, the tug of her skirt across her thighs.
‘Because Brian Brenner is famed for listening to what people say.’ She stops pacing for a moment, draws her lower lip between her teeth before her eyes flick back to his. ‘This is about me, isn’t it?’
His head cocks. ‘It’s always about you, Mac.’
It’s true.
The Greater Fool!, shouts the cover, his face nestled on the newsstand between Vanity Fair and Tatler. Hang Chew’s is shut on Sundays, and he finds himself sitting with her in his apartment.
‘I told you so.’ She says eventually, and he can tell it’s been itching at her all week.
He glares at her. ‘Some things you can keep to yourself, you know.’
‘And some things you can’t.’ She moves now, to sit next to him. She’s had too much to drink, but there’s a shift in her expression that fazes him, for a moment, and her voices ducks low when she says, ‘Will, when I said I fell in love with you, I meant it. I am in love with you.’
A silence. Then, ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘I was hoping it might have an impact.’
I love you too, he’ll murmur later, when she falls asleep against his shoulder.
The world has changed, but it’s a start. Perhaps.
end.
the newsroom, will mcavoy/mackenzie mchale, pg-13.
jazz age au - the world has changed, now, and not for the better.
PART TWO: HEDGEROW BETTING.
New York, 1932. The world has changed, now, and not for the better. It has been 3 years since the crash, since Mackenzie, and if you listen to Charlie Skinner, 3 years since he was a nice guy.
She stands in his office. Her hair's longer than it was three years previous, softer waves curling around her shoulders. She pulls a face, 'I told you it would all end in tears.'
'I didn't think you meant mine.' He can sense her sizing him up: how kind have the years been? how's the bank balance these days?
'What I did, Will- '
'-was reprehensible.'
'Yes! But you have to know, I'm sorry.' He doesn't miss the desperation in her voice. She's sent him letters, and he'll lie if she asks, but he's read them too.
Instead he throws out his arms, 'That makes it all alright, then.'
'Will!' She says, shouts, and there's an aching memory of the snap of his name from her lips, her thighs clamped tight around his hips and hands scrambling for purchase across his back. His blinks and Mackenzie says again, 'Will! Please. We have a chance here, to put things right.'
Between us?
Between the world.
Both.
'3 years.' He says, 'And she hasn't been in New York. I'd've heard about it.'
'She got to London while the going was still good, found herself a decent job at The Times sending dispatches from India.'
I don't want her here, he tells Charlie.
The older man sighs, 'She's exhausted, Will.' And then he adds, 'She wants to come home.' To you.
Mackenzie has ideas, of course. She berates him for going soft, the twenties are over now and there's no use pining for them, she says, just ask Sloan Sabbith. 'Sloan Sabbith,' he frowns, 'Who's he?'
'She.' Mac corrects, waits for it to register. She's slumped in his chair, hair pulled back into a bun. Her slacks have slid off her waist and settled at her hips, revealing a pearly peel of skin. 'And she doesn't think we're at the bottom yet.'
He tears his eyes from her midriff. She notices. 'How does Ms Sabbith know this?'
'Ask her yourself. She's next door.'
The thirties suit Sloan Sabbith. She wears her skirts full and high at the waist, her hair cropped an inch shorter than Mac's. She smiles at the other woman when they enter, a nod of recognition directed to him.
'It's going to get worse before it gets better.' she explains, twisting her gloves in her fingers.
'It's the economy, not the weather.' He says, but Sloan holds his gaze.
'No,' she agrees, 'It's less predictable.'
'Find her a desk.' Mac turns to him, hands set on her hips, jaw set and her meaning is clear: fuck with me, William McAvoy, and I will end you.
Plot twist: she already has.
Don't be coy, you know how this unfolds. The economy finally slumps into the grave in December 1932.
'Now what?' He says.
'We wait,' says Sloan. He glances sideways at his ex-girlfriend, sitting silent and still in the corner.
'For what?' Mac speaks, slowly and deliberately. She's trying very hard to look as though she understands, and he fights the urge to laugh.
'A miracle.' Sloan shrugs.
Mac stands, pushes her sleeves up her arms. 'I want your finished copy by 3. Sloan gets the front page.'
'I'm on a mission to civilise.' He announces. It's 1933, Hitler lurking on the horizon, or rather, page 4. The economy's better, though Sloan assures him it's all relative and won't last.
She ignores him. 'I think we should lead with Germany.'
'The economy's good news, though.'
Her arms are folded tight and she scowls. 'Did a single syllable of what I said last year permeate your skull?'
In truth, he can quote it by heart. 'There was something about Don Quixote's donkey.'
'He rode a horse.' She's already halfway out the door. 'I checked. In the original French.'
'Spanish!'
March 4, 1933. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself, decrees Roosevelt. Mac catches his eye.
'And Jellyfish.' He says, and her nose creases when she giggles.
‘It’s your patriotic duty,’ she replies, ‘Not to make me laugh during an inauguration speech.’ His fingers graze her knuckles, an old habit, and she slides him a look he can’t quite read. It’s times like this he can forget, just for a second, that what happened happened.
Somehow it makes it hurt all the more.
The Hundred Day Congress adjourns on June 16th and he wonders if, finally, peace is descending.
Don’t laugh, of course it’s not.
‘We’re in the magazines all the time, Charlie! They report on New York culture and Will is New York culture. A party’s not a party until some journalist’s name-checked Will McAvoy with some film star hanging off his arm.’
‘That’s the point he’s trying to make,’ he says, and Mac’s head snaps towards him.
‘I am defending you!’
‘Well you shouldn’t be.’
Charlie raises a hand, enough. Get back to work.
She doesn’t knock when she enters, let’s the door slam behind her before she speaks. ‘You brought Brian here to write a piece about the paper.’
He doesn’t look up. ‘I did.’
‘Why the fuck did you do that?’
'I said clearly: no smut or salacity.' He says. He looks at her, now, watches her pace in front of his desk, the tug of her skirt across her thighs.
‘Because Brian Brenner is famed for listening to what people say.’ She stops pacing for a moment, draws her lower lip between her teeth before her eyes flick back to his. ‘This is about me, isn’t it?’
His head cocks. ‘It’s always about you, Mac.’
It’s true.
The Greater Fool!, shouts the cover, his face nestled on the newsstand between Vanity Fair and Tatler. Hang Chew’s is shut on Sundays, and he finds himself sitting with her in his apartment.
‘I told you so.’ She says eventually, and he can tell it’s been itching at her all week.
He glares at her. ‘Some things you can keep to yourself, you know.’
‘And some things you can’t.’ She moves now, to sit next to him. She’s had too much to drink, but there’s a shift in her expression that fazes him, for a moment, and her voices ducks low when she says, ‘Will, when I said I fell in love with you, I meant it. I am in love with you.’
A silence. Then, ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘I was hoping it might have an impact.’
I love you too, he’ll murmur later, when she falls asleep against his shoulder.
The world has changed, but it’s a start. Perhaps.
end.