A/N: So obviously this veers very AU after the end of "5/1," but I'm still going to try to follow the rough series of events from 1.08-1.10. Which means that unless I say otherwise, things are proceeding like they did in canon, even if motivations or interpersonal conflicts have changed. So instead of going through scenes you can just watch, I'll be skimming canon events and focusing more on changed motivations and filling in gaps.

Cool? Cool.

Thanks as always to Meg.

CHAPTER ONE: COLORS IN ROWS

She wakes up a little after 6 AM, staring blearily at her alarm clock, the little red numbers illuminating that side of her bedroom. Stares, and then moans—they didn't leave the studio until well after midnight and she's only had a few hours of fairly restless sleep. Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, MacKenzie figures it's probably her body thinking it's back in the war; Osama Bin Laden's capture would probably be the night for that.

It's not like she spent twenty-six months in al-Qaeda controlled pockets of the Middle East.

She should have just slept at the office.

By habit, she reaches for her BlackBerry on her nightstand, frowning sleepily when she sees that the battery's died. Fumbles for her charger, she leans half out of bed to pull the cord towards her, and plugs it in. Waits a moment, and then turns her phone on to see if she's missed anything important.

Three missed calls.

The first is from Will. At a little past three, she sees, scrolling through the log. Another from Jim, and the last from one of her military sources.

One new voicemail.

From Will.

She sighs. Considering the general state that she left him in—even though he somehow got himself articulately and eloquently through broadcast without flubbing Obama and Osama even once—this ought to be interesting.

Entering the password for her voicemail, she presses her phone to her ear and rubs the sleep from her eyes.

Hey, it's me. Will. I swear I'm not saying this because I'm high, and if the answer is no then just do me a favor and don't call me back or bring it up or… anything. But I have to tell you… I mean, after tonight, I really wanna tell you… that I've never stopped loving you. Do you… do you still love me? Or can you? You were spectacular tonight… Can you believe we got Obama?

Briefly, she considers the possibility that she's still asleep, blinking into the relative darkness of her bedroom. Because she's had this dream before, and if this is just Zoloft fucking with her…

And then an automated voice asks her what she wants to do with the message and she realizes that no…

She's awake.

Hands shaking, she hits the end call button, sits up, and lays the phone between her legs.

I've never stopped loving you.

Paralyzed, she feels her heart surging through her chest, into her breastbone, pumping adrenaline through her veins. Breathing through pursed lips, she casts her gaze out her window, letting her eyes slide out of focus. The bright Times Square billboards blur into a neon mess, and she counts to ten.

She has to call him back.

Because she can't let him think that she doesn't love him. She doesn't know the wisest way to answer, because she knows Will is going to sober up and he's going to get angry at her again, and he's going to regret calling her. But if she doesn't answer, he'll be… she doesn't know what he'll be, but angrier, probably. And hurt. And she's already hurt him enough.

So she has to call.

Carefully, she dials.

Tries to keep her breathing controlled, calm.

Prays that it goes to voicemail, because she doesn't think she can do this if he picks up.

By the third ring, her entire body is shaking, mind racing through all the things she wishes she had said to him four years ago as she was leaving.

You've reached Will McAvoy. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

Biting her lip until her tongue is touched by the metallic taste of blood, she waits for the tone, picking at her cuticles.

"Hey, it's me." Taking a steadying breath, she flexes her fingers into her sheets rather than make her fingers bleed. "I got your voicemail. And I know—I know you said that it wasn't because you're high. But I—I know you, Will. And I guess I'm saying if you want an out, just hang up right now."

That's good, right? She should give him a chance to decide that last night didn't happen? He wasn't sober, obviously, when he called her. And figuring how much he's had, Mac figures he probably isn't sober now, and probably won't be until well into the morning. She'd be… it wouldn't be right. If she had picked up the phone, he would have been in no place to consent to anything. The reverse is also true.

She keeps going, trying to smooth the tremors from her voice. Tentatively, because even though she's had these words rattling around in her head for years, he might actually listen to them now. And then she's going to get up to go to work, and he's going to be there.

He's going to be there, in the newsroom, and they're going to make a choice. Because there's no quick fix for them. They're going to make a choice.

Unless he makes his first. And hangs up.

In which case she'll survive, because that's the status quo. It's familiar. And comfortable. And miserable.

She keeps going.

"But if… you don't hang up… I never stopped loving you. And I know that you probably don't believe me, but that's what I was trying to tell you. In all those emails, all the voicemails." The hundreds of emails and dozens of voicemails that he deleted. MacKenzie realizes that her voice is shaking despite her best efforts, and squeezes her hand tighter into her bedclothes. "I didn't tell you about Brian to break up with you. It was… I know this sounds pathetic, and it is pathetic, but I somehow got into my thirties without ever actually being in a serious relationship."

She didn't want to be in one, before Will. All MacKenzie had been focused on was her career, travelling from place to place, staying just long enough to climb the next rung on the ladder, be shuffled up the ranks. From intern to assistant to associate producer to senior producer to executive producer, winning National Press Awards and Scripps Howards and Emmys and a Peabody. It was easier. Comfortable.

Because she was afraid of what it would mean, if she let anyone in. She grew up as a foreigner in foreign lands, making friends she'd inevitably leave behind for the next assignment. Somewhere along the way she lost the inclination to let people in, or if she did, she did it knowing she'd leave them.

Until Will.

"I mean, I guess I loved Brian. Or thought I did," she whispers, before clearing her throat. She doesn't know. She was immature, in a lot of ways, when she met Will. "It doesn't matter. It's not an excuse. I hurt you, brutally, even if… unintentionally. I thought it was casual, at first. I don't know. And then I fell in love with you, and I broke it off with Brian, and I never saw him again. And when he moved to New York I… I panicked. And I told you. And I'm sorry. If I could go back and do it over again I wouldn't, but… I can't do that."

If she had the chance to do so many things over. If she had stuck around in New York, if she had fought harder even after she had embedded, if she had just… if she had been more mature about a lot things.

Twenty-six months in warzone taught her a lot.

But not enough.

"And Wade… I… it was petty, and I was jealous, and lonely. And it was a bad decision, and he knew that I was still in lo—that's why he…"

She cuts herself off, reroutes the message.

"I love you. I know you said it because you were high, Will. And that's… fine. You're going to wake up and you're going to be angry with me again, even if… even if you do really love me, but I can wait. And if you want me to ignore your voicemail… I'm not going to take advantage of your lack of sobriety, or any—"

You have exceeded the voicemail length. To listen to your message, press three. To record another message, press four.

She briefly deliberates on the idea of leaving another message. Of taking the time to jot down some notes, put together a script of some kind, but then she laughs pitifully at herself at that idea and ends the call, tossing the BlackBerry away from her.

It is what it is.

(God, doesn't she know that.)

She goes to work.

Because she can't fall back asleep, and because she can't just sit around her apartment, because he might call. So she gets up and showers. Blows dry her hair. In a daze, her fingers trail along the row of hangers in her walk-in, plucking a blouse from the rack. And then a skirt, and a pair of shoes. Puts on the same make-up she's worn for years, the same jewelry.

She goes to work.

Because that is how MacKenzie McHale copes.

He first distinctly considers the possibility that he's still high. So he listens to it again. And then again, before it finally begins to settle into his head, clearing out the last foggy wisps of the previous night's high and seven hours of sleep.

I never stopped loving you. And I know that you probably don't believe me, but that's what I was trying to tell you. In all those emails, all the voicemails.

He'd woken up, immediately recalled several events from the night before, and had wanted to fling himself off his balcony. Unfortunately, he thought derisively, it was a rather large newsday, so that would have to wait. So instead Will laid in bed, staring remorsefully at the ceiling, unwilling to move to check his phone or email or google alerts.

Do it for me, Will.

And he'd put his hands on her, and not like… but like a fucking idiot. And he'd gone home with do it for me ringing in his ears, and somewhere around three in the morning some sort of lovelorn malaise had taken over him. So he had picked up the phone. And called MacKenzie.

And now he is sober.

He listens to MacKenzie's voicemail again.

I mean, I guess I loved Brian. Or thought I did. It doesn't matter. It's not an excuse. I hurt you, brutally, even if… unintentionally. I thought it was casual, at first. I don't know. And then I fell in love with you, and I broke it off with Brian, and I never saw him again.

The last time he heard her voice this small she was leaving him. Explaining that she had gotten a job with CNN, was leaving New York in two weeks, and that she was leaving resumes for possible replacements on his desk, and that again, she was so, so sorry.

She thought it was casual? In what fucking world…

I love you. I know you said it because you were high, Will. And that's… fine. You're going to wake up and you're going to be angry with me again, even if… even if you do really love me, but I can wait. And if you want me to ignore your voicemail… I'm not going to take advantage of your lack of sobriety, or any—

The message cuts off there; he knows that. It has the last four times he's played it, but still he flinches, expecting it to keep going. For MacKenzie to rush out words that somehow make it easy, make him forgive her.

You're going to wake up and you're going to be angry with me again, even if… even if you do really love me.

Swallowing hard, he realizes that he can't do that to her. That he won't do that to her. He was the one to call her last night, he opened the door. And now Mac's responded.

Will plays it again.

Her voice is strengthened by desperation, and then curtailed at times by meek cautiousness to the point where he can barely hear her at all. Unable to think of her but small, wrapped in her sheets, holding her phone to her ear with two hands, he decides he isn't angry.

But he also has no idea what to do.

He looks at the clock, and curses, scrambling out of bed so that he isn't late to the first rundown.

Hey, it's me. I got your voicemail. And I know—I know you said that it wasn't because you're high. But I—I know you, Will. And I guess I'm saying if you want an out, just hang up right now.

He hadn't wanted an out. (Mechanically, he shaves, gets dressed. Legs through pants, arms through sleeves, fingers numbly fastening buttons. Comb through hair. Brush teeth.) He kept listening. That means something, right?

"Fuck," he mutters, texting Lonny that he's ready.

She's right, though.

He did say it because he was high.

And if you want me to ignore your voicemail… I'm not going to take advantage of your lack of sobriety, or any—

He said it because he was high, and it doesn't make it any less true. In a way he wishes it does. He's smothered his love for MacKenzie with anger, and hatred, and just about any oppressive emotion he could conjure up in the past four years. It only took one night to peel them away, and it's not like he hasn't gotten wasted since she's come home.

Do it for me, Will.

And doesn't he.

I never stopped loving you.

Trying not to catch her eye, he sits in his usual place at the head of the table in the conference room. They all already seem to have the rundown well in hand, so he sits back and watches her every time she turns her back, reading anxiety from the way she straightens her spine and curls her shoulders inwards, in how white her knuckles turn while holding the marker to the dry erase board, in the clipped turn in her voice.

In how Jim watches her carefully, pen poised against his paper as if he's ready to take notes, but his posture is all wrong. Jim doesn't bother to hide how much he cares about Mac. It makes him the best barometer on how she's doing.

The kid's not looking too great.

"We were taking bets on when you were going to show up," MacKenzie says, back still to him. She sounds off; the staff probably thinks she sounds tired. But he knows that when her voice trills down a half step that she's tense and exhausted, not wanting from lack of sleep, but from being too anxious to obtain it.

"I was on time," he answers, looking down at his BlackBerry when she looks back over her shoulder.

"Somehow." He makes himself look up at her. Crossing her arms under her chest, the look she gives him across the table is one of distinct uncertainty, before a small smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she looks down at the folder of wire reports sitting before Jim. He has no idea what she sees on his face. "But I forgot, you're a metalogical miracle."

"Is that what I said?"

He regrets his word choice immediately, when Mac looks at him, expression inscrutable. Licking his lips, he knows that he has to talk to her as soon as this is over. She thinks he's toying with her, and though he avoids outwardly noticing their demeanors, the senior staff has picked up on the odd tension between them.

Her office.

He'll follow her to her office after this, and regrets that he didn't wake up earlier, tries to hold her gaze and make it mean something. And realizes he's probably failed, when her eyes dart back to the reports that Jim has been feeding her.

"Anyway, as I was saying, we're leading off with coverage of the crowds that assembled outside the White House before pivoting back to Obama's statement—"

Smoothing all worry from her face, she squashes down the panic bubbling in her stomach while he's trailing her into her office after the rundown. Mind running through a dozen or so possibilities, she settles on the likelihood that Will wouldn't come in late to avoid her just to sequester himself in her office with her at his first opportunity.

Regardless, she hugs her folio to her chest, waiting for him to say something.

Instead, he just shifts awkwardly between his feet.

"We need to talk."

Mac tries to smile and, realizing that she is far too nervous to accomplish one, walks around her desk. "You know," she begins, tucking her hair behind her hair before spreading her fingers out against her desktop. "The last time one of us said those words, I wound up in another country and you became the Jay Leno of cable news."

In the blurry top of her vision, she sees him take an unmeasured step towards her.

"I-okay, Mac, don't look so stricken." He says nothing after that, and she realizes that he's waiting for her to make eye contact. Squeezing her fingers together, she does, hemming in rising surge of nerves that she knows must be showing on her face. "It's not like that," Will says, as gently as he can.

And then offers no further explanation.

"Okay…?"

His lips quirk into a nervous grin. "No I'm just—I did try to figure out how to say—" For a moment he stalls entirely, and she can see the mental cogs attempting to mash something together. "Okay. I got your voicemail."

"Oh."

"I really do-I thought it was a good idea to tell you because I was high." He shakes his head, berating himself. "You were… right. But I do—I love you. I just—"

"Can't forgive me," she finishes for him, quietly, and then remembering her half-garbled attempt at a response, grimaces. Shaking her head, she folds her arms under her chest and dedicates herself to trying again. She does, after all, have nothing left to lose. Except the show, but the way his features soften with self-recrimination makes her think he won't tug that out from under her. "I did try to explain it… when I first came back. And this morning, I… I wrote to you a lot, when I was gone. What I said was a condensed version of that, I suppose. I probably should have taken the time to do it coherently-"

"It was fine," he rushes to say, and then sits in the chair across from her desk. His mouth hangs open slightly, and they wind up staring at each other, unable to figure out how to proceed after years of separation and obfuscation.

Watching hesitance and disquiet build up behind his eyes, Mac realizes that he won't make the first move sober.

Swallowing hard and training her eyes to her fingernails, she does. "I was hung up on him because he had rejected me. That's normal." Hazarding a look up at him, she sees that Will's face has shuttered to hide his discomfort, the remaining trace of it persisting in the nervous turn of his mouth, the way he folds his body to seem harmless. Looking down again, she presses forward. "I liked that he hated that I was dating you."

"We weren't just dating," he protests, lifting a hand from where it rests on the arm of the chair.

"Later," she corrects mildly. "We weren't just dating later. At the beginning we were, though. And I was using you, to get—you know." She doesn't. MacKenzie still isn't certain what she was doing with Brian, except to bolster her own self esteem by driving him to envy. Turning it over in her head, like she's done for the past four years, she still can't decide if she loved Brian, why she was so hung up over him. "I wasn't a very good person, when you first met me."

"That's not true—"

MacKenzie almost laughs at the expression of indignance on his face.

But I have to tell you… I mean, after tonight, I really wanna tell you… that I've never stopped loving you.

"Yes, it is," she asserts, laughing then, the sound ringing hollowly with self-deprecation. "You didn't notice I was seeing my ex-boyfriend behind your back, and you didn't notice how much of an immature idiot I was. I'm not the same person I was six years ago. Or a few years ago. And neither are you." That squares between them for a moment, heavy and claustrophobic, like a door shutting on a single exit. Smiling tightly, she continues, finally able to lift her eyes from her desk. "But then… and then I fell in love with you and I never saw him again. And if I hadn't told you, you'd never have known."

It's Will who looks away this time, albeit briefly. "So why did you tell me?"

Her smile falters, and blossoms again, sadder, wiser. "If I had to do it all over again I wouldn't. But I had never been in a relationship as serious as ours—I wasn't lying this morning. Or twenty seconds ago. And I'm not—I'm not making excuses for myself, either."

He hates excuses, and she feels it, physically, when they slip back into old patterns, slide back into guarded expressions and closed body language.

"You're sure you didn't tell me because you wanted to break up?" The accusatory sting is dampened, but not gone from his voice, and she knows she was right. Will got so high that he forgot that he was mad at her. And now he is again.

Exhaling softly, she ducks her head, purses her lips.

It was foolish to assume that anything would change.

"I'm," she starts, as beseeching as she is exasperated. "Have you been listening to me, at all?"

Thanks for reading!