TEASER: Mac gets sent into the war zone in Iraq on a case. You would think that for once, her nightmares wouldn't involve Harm's exploits in an F-14.
DISCLAIMER: If I owned the ensemble and the concept, I wouldn't be in debt. If I were making money from them, I would be in a lot less debt. If DPB and TPTB would like to sell them to me on an installment plan, show me where to sign. Until then, consider them borrowed with love and the story and any new characters mine.
ARCHIVE: Flattery will get you everywhere! Please ask first via e-mail in my profile.
FEEDBACK: Always, but spare the flames, please. Life is tough enough without a hobby being stressful, too.
RATING: PG-13.
AUTHOR'S NOTE and SPOILERS: Companion piece to "A Prisoner Set Free". Not related to my previous stories "With Prejudice", "Raising Men: My Sailor", or "Lady Sarah". Anything is fair game up to season 8 through "Favorite Son"; based, alas, on current events, and set in Mac's voice.
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24 March 2003
Really, it was only a matter of time before one of us got tagged. But why couldn't it have been Tracey or one of the other judges instead of me?
Because it's a mission for a Marine, and a Marine with very specific qualifications, at that. Farsi and Russian speaker, member of the D.C. bar, in-depth knowledge of al-Qaeda operations and structure, and experience with the military tribunal system. Hmmmm… let me think how many Marines meet those exact criteria.
None.
Except me.
Damn it. I can say that out loud here in my own apartment in Georgetown, since the admiral's dog is safely at home with him in McLean. I know because she was barking furiously the entire time AJ – Admiral Chegwidden – was telling me about this ludicrous interruption to my extended tenure on the bench. I think poor Dammit was reacting to the venom in his voice, because if anything, he's even more distressed about this than I am.
We agree, however, that neither of us can possibly be as distraught about this as a certain Naval Aviator turned JAG we both know will be when I tell him in about 5 minutes.
"Mac," the admiral said to me as we finished the call a few minutes ago, "do you have any magic words that will keep Harm from going off the deep end while you're away?"
"Short of letting him come with me, sir, the only thing I can think of is chaining him to his desk so he can't go UA to come after me." My partner's obsession with my safety is either a sign that he's mentally ill or that he really is in love with me but doesn't have the maturity yet to show it in more appropriate ways. I'm not willing to place a bet either way, but my hopes lie much more in the latter than the former.
"What size link should I look for?" our commanding officer asked with just a touch of macabre humor in his tone.
I laughed. "The anchor chain from the Seahawk might to do the trick, Admiral. I need to go if I'm going to catch Harm early enough for him to pick me up."
Four minutes and 12 seconds have passed since I hung up from the only man I've ever met that I wish I could call "Father", even though he's not quite old enough to fit the bill. Now I have to call the only man I've ever truly loved enough to marry (never mind the one I did marry and the one I almost married) and ask him to pick me up so he can take me to Andrews for a flight to Qatar. He'll be so happy to hear that part of this mission means going into Iraq.
"Rabb," he grumbles into the phone, and I know I've woken him up. It's only 0655, after all.
"Mackenzie," I rumble back, and get the laugh I wanted from him as he tries to come to his senses. "Got a favor to ask. Can you pick me up for staff call?"
I think I hear him push himself into a sitting position before he answers me. "Sure. Car dead or did I forget that you have a maintenance appointment today?"
It's a logical question for him to ask, but I have to disappoint him. "No, Harm," I say in as gentle a voice as I can, "I'm going TAD and the admiral wants you to take me to Andrews."
"Iraq?"
I nod and am not surprised that he guessed right off the bat. We know each other too well for something this big to go unnoticed along the strong cords that have bound us together over the last six years. "Yeah. But mostly Centcom in Qatar," I confirm, hoping to reassure him that mostly I won't be in danger.
"I'm going with you," he declares to me, but I know as well as he does that those words, while heartfelt, have no power.
I laugh because otherwise his sentiment would make me cry. "Not likely, Flyboy. The powers that be asked for me by name, apparently, and before you ask, Webb had nothing to do with it."
He snorts on the other end of the phone, and he's probably right to assume that Webb isn't completely innocent in this venture. I, however, won't stoop to Clay-bashing until I have proof that he's placed me in – no pun intended – harm's way. He did that six years ago in the White House Rose Garden and I haven't decided yet if there's a need to kiss him or kill him for it – it's a minute-to-minute thing.
I continue. "You will not magically disappear from DC while I'm gone, do you understand me? You've managed to keep your record fairly clean lately and DDO/UA charges now would be detrimental to your career. But flattering in its own warped way. 0740, Harm, and not a minute later."
"Yes, ma'am," he barks out in that way he has of chafing at my seniority. "If you want me there, you've got to let me go."
"Good-bye, Harm," I say as he's saying "Good-bye" on his end.
Only as I'm standing under the scalding spray of the last hot shower I'm likely to get for two weeks does it dawn on me that he said, "Good-bye, Sarah."
I spend the rest of my morning routine and final packing basking in the glow that comes whenever he uses my given name. Damn him.
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When Harm arrives two whole minutes early, I can see in the set of his jaw that he's extremely upset, although he tries mightily to make light of the situation.
"You ought to get some good sun, at least," he says as I'm fastening my seat belt. "That will be worth seeing when you get back." The jaw is still tight and the smile doesn't reach his eyes, although I think that there might be a very masculine gleam there if I could look right at him.
"I wish," I mutter back. "I'll be stuck in the stupid chocolate chip BDUs with the campaign hat when I'm not gas masked and helmeted."
Ooo, bad move, Mackenzie. Reminding my Flyboy of the dangers just now was definitely detrimental to the mood. Maybe I can reverse this, though. "Look at it this way, Harm. I won't be wearing skimpy clothes in front of hundreds of ogling, deprived men."
I get the fish eye from him before he breaks into a small grin. "Will you for one deprived man when you get back?"
I'm going to categorize that in the same family as the "I can help with that, too," remark from the Seahawk before we found out about Bud. Outrageously flirtatious but ultimately harmless (pun intended.) "Depends on who he is," I shoot back, and for the first time this morning I get the full Flyboy grin as he pulls to a stop at a traffic light.
"Me?"
God, I don't think I've ever heard such pathetic hopefulness in his voice before as he put into that single syllable. And I know, suddenly, that as soon as he sets himself free from his prison of self-control, that the key to the innermost recesses of his heart is five simple words from me. But the keyhole isn't accessible yet. "I'll take it under advisement," I say instead, because I love to see him squirm, and give him my best "Ooh-rah Marine" grin.
Judging by the shifting he's doing as he tries to focus on the road, someday, I'm going to have a great deal of fun seducing this man.
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He's crying in my arms.
My Harm is crying in my arms, all because I'm going away for two weeks. True, it's to a war zone, but still…
Why can't he just say the words so we can get past this nebulous in-between thing and get on with living like a whole being instead of two halves of a whole? I would like so much to kiss him, to reassure him that I care as much as he obviously does, but I'm not going to throw that burden into everything else just now. I content myself with the short, silky hairs on the nape of his neck and call to him. "Harm?"
"Mac, you're gonna give me nightmares," he moans. I'm instantly back in the office on that day when he actually had the nerve to ask me – after everything we've been through – if he gives me nightmares when he flies. Duh. He gives me nightmares whenever I'm not around to watch his six, and about 9 times out of 10 when I am. The nightmares about him are more frightening than the ones I have about Bosnia and Indonesia because…well, because I survived Bosnia and Indonesia. I'm not sure that he'll survive the next time he goes flying or the next time he goes to interview a violent client in the brig.
I make my voice as low and soothing as I can, as though I'm talking to Little AJ before bed. "Harm, I'm going to be fine. I'm only going to be in the hot zone for about 12 hours, in and out to get the subject, then I'll be in Doha at Central Command HQ until the whole thing is resolved to a point that I can come back."
His instant reply is, "How long?"
"Two weeks tops." I tear my hands away from the back of his neck reluctantly and move to cup his wet cheeks in my palms. His eyes are that tumultuous sea gray they get when he's upset and it hurts me to the quick to know that I'm the cause.
"Is that a promise?"
That word is almost as loaded as "eternity" between the two of us. "Promise," I nod, and give him a small smile.
"Don't make a promise you can't keep," he warns.
We both laugh a little at the backwardness of this conversation but it's somehow okay. "I haven't yet."
A cloud passes across his eyes and I wonder if he's thinking about what he didn't make me promise to do in Sidney. But he nods after a brief moment and acknowledges, "No, Sarah, you haven't. E-mail me?"
"As often as I can." I was absolutely blown away with his late Christmas gift to us this year. Satellite phones and wireless laptop connections. He had to have dipped into that trust fund he never, ever touches to afford all of it after the replacement Corvette last year wiped out his savings, and something tells me he did it just in case something like this ever happened. But I'd be willing to bet that he thought he'd be the one leaving, not me.
Tears are still streaming from his eyes; that he's not bothering to try to hide them touches me deeply, but now I'm more worried about him than ever. Again, I want to kiss him, but I settle for a question. "Harm, will you really be okay?"
Liquid warmth flows through me as he gazes at me with those wide, pained eyes and it's almost as good as a kiss.
It's his words, though, that resonate. "I'll survive until you get back, and then I'll be okay."
It's a good thing that the steward comes when he does because I'm about three nanoseconds from throwing myself into his arms and kissing him senseless.
Wait. Harm's a man, he's already senseless. That's a cold thought, but effective for helping me lighten the mood because I can't leave him like this. I step back a little to increase the distance between us, but I'm not ready to leave his embrace or to move my hands from his beautiful, tearstained face. "I guess I really am a VIP this trip."
He takes my hands in his and lays a tender kiss in each palm. "You're always a VIP to me, Sarah."
I swear, the way that man says my name is enough to have me right on the edge of orgasmic bliss. But I can't let him know that, so I force myself to smile at him and lighten the mood a bit more. "You be careful and smart while I'm gone, Mr. VIP Flyboy. Or I'll come back and kick your six into next year."
"You, too, Mac." He freezes for a moment, holding my hands, before he lets go and steps back.
Or maybe I step back, I'm not sure. I just know that I'm not basking in his warmth anymore, and I am immediately afraid that this might be the last time I ever see him. Not because of what might happen to me, but because he's still flying BARCAP, more now, even, because of the heightened alert status, and because I always have nightmares when he flies.
I have to get away from him. I lift my briefcase, thankful that it can ultimately go inside my sea bag once I'm in theater, and turn to go out to the plane.
Don't turn around. Don't turn around.
Damn, I turn around to find that Harm is watching me and all I want to do is run back to him and never let go.
"Take care of those babies of mine," he says, flashing the smile that makes my knees weak and my heart pound in my chest.
When I recover, I smile in return to let him know that I got it, and then I go out the door without another look back.
It's going to be a long two weeks.
