Hello and welcome to Silver-writes-fanfic-when-she's-sad-and-it-somehow-makes-her-feel-better. It's another ep fix! This time we're dealing with s9 episode 1 – the infamous "you know why" scene. This takes place a little after those words – abebago has the clip up on youtube (titled 'you know why') if you want to refresh your memories. Non-canon-compliant from there on, as always ;)

(Unfortunately also as always) they're not mine :(


She tossed the covers aside, pulled herself up and paced toward him. Her swaying walk covered more ground to the side than it did forward. Perhaps that was a metaphor.

"How long have we known each other?" She asked him, lips pursed. Perhaps she had no right to demand answers. He had saved her life, after all. He was right on that count. Though he'd done himself no favours afterwards, treating this like an ordinary mission and tossing insults around like confetti. His attitude broke this for her. It made the unwillingness to leave her side borderline intolerable rather than merely protective.

"Eight years," he answered. He was gearing up for conflict. She could see the look in his eyes – treading the line between betrayal and resolve.

She leant over on the coffee table, the movement almost automatic. "Feels like a lot longer than that." The words slipped out without warning, not loud enough to subsume the cicadas outside the window.

He wouldn't look at her. The betrayal was stronger now – she could feel it wafting off him, falling to the floor where his eyes lay. Granted, she couldn't tell if he was avoiding her eyes or her body. He was strange like that. Or honourable perhaps? She didn't know where to draw the line anymore. Every man she'd ever known would have looked her up and down, if not lecherously then at least in appreciation. The most stoic of specimens might have taken a little longer, but all bowed eventually. A few friends at Duke had liked to play a game where they counted the seconds men took to take surreptitious looks at their breasts. It was never long. Quietly disgusted, Mac hadn't liked to participate, but you didn't need to count to notice. Harm didn't deserve to be applauded for it, of course. Mac hoped they'd eventually reach a world where it was basic human decency.

But nonetheless – her gaze flitted to his eyes, almost closed, still avoiding hers in the dark. "Yeah, I guess so," he said dully. She could feel the pain and resignation laced like sleeping pills through the words. Deliberately, she gave herself a moment to take stock. She noted the outline of his face, blending into the furrow of his brow. Lines, familiar as the map of her hometown, stretched and flickered around his face.

He was wearing the white vest she'd seen him in so many times. High-necked, cotton, dipping low around the arms. It sometimes felt obliquely like a secret between them – always worn under the military-issue shirt, but never seen. Except by his girlfriends. And Mattie. And her.

He was, to some extent, hers. And he always would be. In her heart of hearts, she knew that was why he'd come after her. She'd certainly dreamt of it more than once, silently screaming his name as the blows fell on Clay. She'd never forget they were meant for her. It was at least part of what kept her by Webb's side. When the darkness closed in, she could count on her quasi-survivor's guilt for consistency.

She'd thought she was hallucinating at first. His familiar silhouette in the doorway had seemed impossible; the weaponised glance little more than a fanciful dream. Sometimes it still felt like that. She'd catching him scanning for danger as he stood beside her, halfway between a sentinel and a lighthouse and never saying a word. Some part of her was unsettled when he assigned himself this role: personal protector for a woman he genuinely believed didn't need it. What a title. What a goal.

"Mac," he said softly, and it echoed like a footprint on her heart. "Mac?"

As if he thought he had to say her name more than once to get her attention. To bring her back to reality, maybe. But she always knew where he was, and even more so when he needed her.

"Harm," she said once, for certainty. His eyes flickered up traitorously at the determination in that word. "How long have you loved me?"

She'd rarely known Harm's poker face to falter. Cultivated over years of military training and courtroom battles, it fitted neatly into a box of essential skills that had become, for all intents and purposes, automatic. She'd learnt in law school that a good poker face could save your case. In their line of work, it more often saved your life. Right now, Harm's barely flickered before snuffing out completely. He was left with an expression of utmost shock.

"Um, Mac, I…" His eyebrows beetled together, forming a single line across the top of his face.

She leant up from the table, standing tall and drawing his eyes. "Honestly, Harm," she said in a voice that verged on a whisper. "How long?"

"Mac…are you sure we shouldn't…table this conversation?" He picked something up off the windowsill and passed it, almost nervously, through the fingers of one hand. His eyes returned to the floor. "I don't want any…tension…between us right now."

Fighting the urge to put a hand on her hip, she cast his bowed head a long look. "I think we're past that point, sailor." She paused deliberately, forcing his mind back to the string of uncomfortable moments they'd experienced since their rescue. Turning, she looked back at the bed. The rumpled sheets on one side told the story quite nicely. "If we don't have it once" – she gestured behind her, "this will keep happening."

He breathed out sharply. "Maybe we're not ready for it to stop." She wondered if that was the story his mind told in the long moments he stood motionless beside her, present and alert but completely inaccessible. They had been plentiful this trip. It made it hard to believe they could ever get out of this holding cycle, even when she knew they desperately needed to.

Deep breaths, Mac. It was those stretching, stomach-churning moments that made this conversation necessary. If she wanted them to stop, she had to start something. "No, we are, Harm. If only because I'm not denying myself what I want any longer. As long as you want it too."

He looked up, finally making eye contact for a second. The flicker of hope in his eyes made something inside her jump for joy. "And what is it that you want, Mac?"

What did she want? Oh, what a question. She wanted her sentinel to start speaking. She wanted to know everything he thought about her, and she wanted to have the right to. She wanted an end to the subtle, resigned stomachaches that made her wonder where this all went wrong. She wanted to be able to support him without having to divine the contents of his head. She wanted her best friend back.

But it was more than that. She wanted to fall into his arms and know she was safe from tomorrow. She wanted to wake up beside him every day for the rest of her life. She wanted to walk into the Admiral's office, show him a ring, and ask who won the pool. She wanted every rumour to be true. She wanted him to love her like he loved F-14s and justice. She wanted him to love her like she loved him.

But with any luck, that would all come out in due course. What she said now, to the man who had pulled the plug on far too many relationships for lack of care, was "I want you, Harm. And I always will."

He blinked once, slowly, and laid his palms flat upward on the table. "You've got me, Mac."

In other circumstances, with other men, she might have been satisfied. Harm, she knew inside out. This was a textbook obfuscation. He meant that he'd always be there for her, but she knew that already. His loyalty was hard to shake. But she didn't want his loyalty. She wanted his love.

"No, Harm." His chest raised. She barrelled on before she saw any other sign of his defensive side emerging. "I know you'll have my back in the crunch. I'm grateful for that – for the way we complete each other. It's not something I've experienced with anyone else. But it's also not what I'm asking for right now."

His hands moved, index fingers turning up to rub his thumbs. She gave an internal sigh and decided to be more specific. Some part of her brain screamed sardonically that it could end incredibly badly. She agreed and continued regardless. "Of course I want you beside me in a fight, Harm. But I also want you beside me when I wake up in the morning and when I go to sleep at night. I want to factor you in to my future."

For the first time in the conversation, his eyes drifted up, met hers, and stuck. "We've never been good at factoring in," he said drowsily, but not without hope.

Mac wasn't about to let him derail this now. "No," she jumped in defensively, "but if you care about me as much as I think you do, then maybe we're both…"

"Mac."

"Mac," he said again as if bringing her back from a daydream. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself. "I was going to say that we've never been good at factoring in, but the last few weeks have proved I would drop my life for you. And if I were averse to doing that on a lesser scale…well, it would just make me obtuse."

"For me," she said dreamily, and all the tension poured out of her posture.

He shook his head, tiny tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "For you," he said slowly, gaze fixed on the woman across from him, "anything."

She tried to laugh softly, and her voice caught on tears. "God, Harm, if we can do things like this…surely we must be able to work around frat regs."

"Mac." He'd stood up without her noticing, and in two paces he covered the space between them. "MAC."

And his hands were on her back, creeping under her shirt and clutching skin like water in the desert. Her breath hitched and she could feel it fall in time with his – in, out, in, out. And then it stopped, and all she could feel was her hands in his hair and on his back, their bodies pressed together – her mouth on his.

When they woke up the next morning, the sheets were rumpled on both sides.