Disclaimer: At this point, I'm kind of glad I don't own JAG. I'm not sure how I'd explain away season nine if I did…maybe Dallas had the right idea, making the whole 'Who shot JR' season into a bad dream. Mac can just wake up one day and realize that Harm never joined the CIA; instead, they got married in season 3 and have 2.5 kids and a townhouse in Georgetown. Hey, we can always hope, right?
A/N: Long time, no post. My abject disgust for all of season nine has put a block on my JAG-writing ability, but look for some SVU work in the next few weeks. This is a really old, semi-PWP story that I'm stuck on. If you've got any ideas, let me know! :)
I'm late, there's a rip in my hose, and I skipped breakfast. I'd be starving if I weren't so nervous. I've got the last part of the Carlson court-martial in half an hour and I'm terrified I'm going to lose this one. Mattoni, usually as easygoing in court as he is in person, sandbagged me yesterday and I'm in serious trouble unless the jury buys my defense that the order the petty officer was given was unlawful in the first place. I have little to no confidence that this will work, but there isn't anything else I can do. Mattoni knows he's got me over a barrel, so he's not offering any deals. The worst part is, I agree with what Carlson did, even though he was disobeying a direct order. If he goes to Leavenworth it'll be my fault.
I step into my office, opening my second desk drawer to find my spare hose, and notice a little card in a blue envelope sitting on my desk. My name is written on it in Harm's barely legible scrawl, and I try to restrain my curiosity as I open the envelope. The front of the card is a picture of a kitten who's obviously having a worse day than I am; it's hanging from a tall tree by one paw, and its expression is absolutely piteous. I open the card and catch the small piece of paper that falls out. The inside of the card reads 'Hang in there'. I chuckle, reading Harm's added comment. 'I saw this and thought of you. Mattoni might have the upper hand, but he can't hold a candle to you, Mac. Just tell the jury what you think of the case. You're damn persuasive when you want to be. Take this for luck; the jackpot's up to 60 million. Who knows, maybe you'll win and JAG's paychecks will become the furthest thing from your mind. Good luck today. ~H'.
I take a better look at the slip of paper in my hand, shaking my head when I realize it's a lottery ticket. Only Harm. I slip it into my pocket, touched that Harm went out of his way to give me a pat on the back before my trial this afternoon even though he's so busy with his investigation in Norfolk. I grab my spare hose and a piece of paper, scribbling a message down and stapling it shut before handing it to Bud as I head back through the bullpen to change and then go down to the courtroom.
"Hey Bud, can you make sure Harm gets this when he gets back from Norfolk?"
Bud looks up, surprised.
"Sure, ma'am. Good luck this afternoon."
"Thanks, Bud."
-------------------------------------------------
I spare a look at Mac's office as I get off the elevator, but it's dark and the door is shut. She's already in court, then. I wanted a chance to wish her luck in person, but at least I thought of the card. I saw it when I was grocery shopping after work, and darned if that cat didn't have the same expression on its face Mac had after court yesterday. I just couldn't resist.
"Excuse me, Commander?"
I turn around, a smile on my face for our young protégé. "What's up, Bud?"
"Sir, Major Mackenzie asked me to give this to you."
I scan the note, chuckling. It only has six words, but Mac is famous for her brevity. 'If I win, we'll go halves. ~M' The expression takes me back to last month and the conversation we had outside JAG headquarters after little AJ was born, even though I know she's talking about the lotto ticket I tossed in on impulse. Every time I think of that day, I wish five years had passed between now and then. I know that Mac and I both have a ways to go before we're ready for that kind of long-term commitment in our lives, but I've spent at least an hour of every day since then fantasizing about what our kids would be like, how many we'd have, and about a thousand NC-17 fantasies about what it would be like to be married to her that I'll never own up to.
"Thanks, Bud," I reply, tucking the note into my pocket to add to my secret collection of things Mac has scribbled down and given to me over the years we've been together. I'm probably the only man in the whole Navy who keeps his partner's shopping lists. I love her handwriting; it's all curvy and slanty, just like girls are supposed to write. I know she'd have my head for that thought just on principle. That's why I've never shared it with her. There are lots of thoughts I don't dare share with Mac. Most of them make 'red light' a completely inadequate term. I shake my head, trying to get my mind off my partner and back to the present.
"Sir, do you think she'll win this case?"
I give Bud a considering look. "I don't know, Bud, but I do know she'll do her best. If she can't win it, no one can."
"Yes, sir." He looks reassured, so I continue on to my office, whistling under my breath.