Disclaimer: Don't own'em
A/N: My only excuse is that this is what came out from the challenge lines given. It's not really a story or much of anything… Anyways, it takes place in that wonderful time when they were so close and all our hopes were up, and before the subsequent domino effect that toppled said hopes. If there are inaccuracies herein, pretend they're intentional.
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HBX Challenge – December 2007 Lines:
Harm: You're a good looking woman, Mac. You're smart. (Teasing tone for both). Of course you do have a tattoo.
Mac: Every now and then I catch you being nice.
Harm: Keep it to yourself, okay? I've got a reputation to protect.
(Chains of Command)
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Converse, Discover, Undress
Harm popped his head into Mac's office, and found her buried deep in a stack of files.
"Hey, Mac. Want to come over for dinner tonight?" He turned on his charm and his smile. "I'll make it worth your while."
She glanced up from her paperwork, one eyebrow raised. Her expression was a textbook display of scepticism. "By wilting my ear over the Marshall case? I don't think so, Harm. This is my first work-free evening in a long time."
Damn. She caught him out. He tried to feign affront. "I was actually going to cook your favourite—"
"You know how to make Beltway Burgers?" She cut him off, grinning smugly as she settled comfortably in her chair, her work forgotten.
He shook his head in amusement and leaned against her doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. "I was going to say: shrimp linguine."
She sighed apologetically. "Sorry, Harm. I really can't. I already have plans."
"You have plans for tonight?" He asked incredulously. He was too surprised by her revelation to try and hide his automatic response.
"Hey, it's been known to happen." She looked mildly offended by his reaction, and he tried to extricate his foot from his mouth.
"Um, what I meant was…" He trailed off lamely. He actually didn't really know what he meant, except that he thought they were on good enough terms now for her to go back to telling him the minutiae of her life, just like she used to do before he changed designators.
But instead of shoving his other foot in his mouth by saying that out loud, he decided to distract her with banter.
"Hot date, Colonel?" He teased, knowing it wasn't. Or rather, hoping it wasn't.
"With a male model, actually." She replied, maintaining eye contact with him. "I hope to be seeing a lot of Stéphane in the near future."
He came very close to worrying, before he realized that she was watching him carefully, her lips curved in the quirky smile that still gave her away. So she was teasing him. His grin widened and he decided to assume full-flirt mode.
"Really?" He pushed himself off the doorjamb and entered her office.
She nodded slowly as she watched him take a seat on one of the chairs in front of her desk.
He leaned forward in his chair, and held her gaze. "And what's so special about Stéphane?"
"He lets me do whatever I want with him." Her eyes did not waver from his, a smile teased her lips. But it was her voice, deep and smooth as molasses that caught his attention.
She was flirting back. He debated whether he should take this a step further … To hell with it. Why not? He did enjoy flirting with her, and until she threw him traffic signals and put the gears in reverse, he would take his fill of her.
"And what," he lowered his voice to a more intimate timbre, "do you want to do with him?" He raised his eyebrow, issuing the challenge.
She bit her lower lip. The impish mischief in her eyes taking full flight.
"He is a nude male model." She twirled her pen between her fingers. "He has virtually no inhibitions."
Harm felt his jaw drop and his brain screech to a halt. Woah. It was suddenly quite hot in here. He was about to consider the merits of asking her if that was a request, when the sound of her laughter snapped him out of his R-rated thoughts.
He looked at her, confused and slightly embarrassed by his reaction to her words. She could read him like a book most times, and even more so these days. So instead of defending himself, which would only give her more fodder for amusement at his expense, he took the high road: he leaned back in the chair, tried to look unaffected by their conversation and resisted the urge to loosen his collar.
"So, you up for dinner?" He asked again.
Her laughter faded and her expression turned regretful. "I really can't, Harm."
He shrugged, admittedly disappointed and very curious. "Don't worry about it. Raincheck."
What the hell was she going to be doing tonight? He wanted to ask, but didn't know if he should or – more importantly – if she would think he was being overbearing.
"I signed up for a class on Thursday evenings at this studio near my place." She answered his unasked question. She really could read him like a book. He wished he could return the favour.
"Studio?" He frowned, curious. "I never pictured you as the yoga type."
"Not that kind of studio," She gave him an amused smile. "A paint studio. I signed up for paint classes. Every Thursday."
"Why would you do that?"
"What?" She seemed genuinely confused by his question.
"Why sign up for paint classes. That is one expensive hobby." He'd seen how exorbitantly priced paint materials were due to his mother's interest in art. He didn't know Mac to indulge in expensive pastimes.
"So is owning a Stearman and a classic corvette." She replied easily.
"Point taken." He wanted to call attention to the fact that he genuinely did have more expensive pastimes than she did. After all, how much could it cost to track down dinosaur tracks in the desert or brush the dust off old bones? And beyond her corvette, how much did she spend on herself just because she could? She had, after all, left private practice despite the paycheque. He wondered if her difficult childhood accounted for her modest tastes, or if it was just who she was. He didn't voice his thoughts out loud, though, unsure of how she would take such a comment.
Instead, he smiled and returned to his original question. "But why painting?"
She shrugged. "Last time I painted was art class in high school. Thought it might be fun. Besides, I read that learning and thinking are enhanced when people use both sides of their brains. I think I have an overdeveloped left side; I'm trying to give the right side a leg up."
"So you very logically concluded that you need to be more creative." He summarized. The irony of her thought processes, he concluded, was incredibly amusing.
"Hey," she said defensively, all the while grinning. "I did say my left side was overdeveloped."
He chuckled. A thought occurred. "What side of my brain do you think is overdeveloped?"
"I think you have a very balanced brain." She answered without pause for thought.
"Thanks." He smiled widely, genuinely pleased by her response.
"You just need to learn how to use it." She added. He shook his head indulgently at her teasing, wondering if he ever would have the last word in one their verbal spars.
He realized she was studying him quietly. "What?" he asked.
"Come with me." She sounded quite serious.
"What?" He exclaimed, startled. "Me?"
"Come on. I'll make it worth your while." She winked playfully.
"I don't paint." He fidgeted in his chair, trying to find a way out of this.
"It'll be fun." She countered, looking amused.
"I don't see how."
"Class finishes at 2000. We'll go out for dinner after. My treat." She offered.
"I don't have any supplies." It was all he could think of as an excuse.
"We can share." She was not making this easy for him.
It occurred to him that he rarely ever unequivocally said no to her. He usually hedged or delayed when she asked him for something, or just gave in to her and then threw in a token compromise for the sake of appearances – she did have impressive powers of persuasion when she set her mind to something, after all. Which meant he also rarely ever unequivocally said yes to her. He frowned at the realization. It was … interesting.
"Harm?"
"Huh?" He focussed on her again.
"You okay?" Her concern was apparent. He must really have phased out. He shook himself back to the present.
"I'm fine. And alright. I'll come. But you're buying dinner." He pointed his finger at her. "I am in the mood for Ethiopian food."
"Ethiopian food?" She repeated, surprised. He congratulated himself; she probably didn't know of any such restaurants. He might find a way out of this yet.
"Ethiopian." He confirmed.
"I know just the place." She replied, to his dismay. "The class starts at 1900. Can you be at my apartment for 1830?" She began clearing her desk for the day.
"So early?" He asked as he stood up, resigned to spending an hour painting. He hoped dearly that this never got back to Keeter. Or anyone he'd ever flown with. Or anyone.
"I just want to give you enough time to be late." She replied, without looking up.
"Make that South Indian." He declared. "I'm suddenly in the mood for South Indian food."
She laughed lightly and began clearing away her desk. "Nice try, Flyboy. But I know just the place for that, too."
"Nepalese?" He tried again.
"I also know a great little place for that."
"You do not." Now she was just pulling his leg. She looked up at him, grinning and he noted that her lip was not doing the upturn thing. Huh. He didn't know there was a Nepalese restaurant in town.
"I do, too. Now scoot. Be at my place at 1830." She walked around her desk and waved him towards the door.
"Alright, alright; I'm going. And I won't be late." He informed her over his shoulder.
"I'll believe it when I see it." She replied to his retreating back.
--
Harm sat uncomfortably on a tiny stool, and stared at the woman who was circling the room, navigating between the various propped easels and amateur painters. What had he gotten himself into?
The woman in question was Madame Ivanski. She was a tall, wiry woman with a stern face, a ferocious mole on her chin, and jet black hair tied into such a tight bun Harm thought her scalp would tear off if she smiled. Luckily for her scalp, she didn't smile much, if at all. Quite frankly, she was mildly terrifying. She was also Russian and got on with Mac like a house on fire. He made a mental note to tease Mac about being the teacher's pet over dinner, once they were far away from the Cossack harridan.
Madame Ivanski was roaming the room, pointing out the finer points of art and painting and beauty. Harm felt distinctly out of place, something that only happened rarely.
He glanced at Mac, who was eyeing the subject they were meant to be painting this evening. For his part, Harm was studiously avoiding even looking in the general direction of said subject. Apparently, Mac did know a nude male model by the name of Stéphane.
Tomcats would be fuelled by milkshakes before he looked that closely at a naked man. Let alone actually committed what he saw to paper.
He tuned in to the steady stream of commentary and encouragement Madame Ivanski was providing. Her accent, Harm would admit, was appealing even if her tone was clipped and her voice severe.
"When you paint, you are conversing with beauty." Madame Ivanski waxed eloquent in her no-nonsense tone. "The brush is your tongue and the colours and textures of the paint are your words. You are asking beauty to reveal itself through you, through your creativity. Beauty never reveals itself in the same way to different people. You must uncover it; slowly undress it as you would a lover."
Harm tried not to appear too discomfited by that statement. He tried even harder not to look at Mac, sure that she would sense his discomfort and tease him. And he didn't think he could look at her with any degree of composure when he had thoughts of undressing beauty flitting inside his head.
"Beauty is a mystery." Madame Ivanski continued sermonizing. "Just as good art is a mystery. Just as creativity is a mystery. You must uncover these, and yet you must hide them behind your style and your strokes. Because the appeal of beauty lies in its slow discovery, in unwrapping what you think you see and revealing what you actually perceive." Madame Ivanski's voice rose in a steady crescendo as she warmed to her topic, although her tone stayed an unpleasant monotone. "And that is art! You must discover the beauty in Stéphane, you must tease it out and experiment with it…"
Harm fidgeted on his tiny stool. He felt the adolescent urge to laugh at the double entendre in Madame Ivanski's words. He hazarded a glance at Mac, but she was too engrossed in the portrait she was painting to listen to the Madame. He waited for her to look over at him, but she only looked away from her painting to study Stéphane intently. Harm sighed and turned his attention back to his own canvas.
He dipped his brush in the brown paint on his palette, and applied it to his canvas in light strokes. He pulled the brush back and cocked his head to the side, studying his work. Maybe he should just call this an abstract piece and have done with it.
"True beauty never reveals itself, it waits to be discovered." Madame Ivanski pontificated.
Harm looked up at Madame Ivanski and then at Mac, who finally surfaced from her fascination with the naked Stéphane and turned to him. She smiled brightly when she caught his stare.
"How's it going?" She nodded towards his painting.
He shrugged. "Alright. I'm aiming for abstract art. How about you?"
"I'm enjoying experimenting with Stéphane," she joked.
He shook his head wryly. "Between you and the rest of the women in this room, I think Stéphane must feel like quite the lab rat."
They fell into a comfortable silence, discovering beauty by the soundtrack of Madame Ivanski's commentary.
"You know," Harm said after a few moments, "I am the only guy here." He glanced at Mac who was once again studying Stéphane.
She caught his eye. "You're not the only guy. Don't forget Stéphane." She paused and brushed some paint onto her canvas. "Besides, Harm, you in a room full of women … you must be in your element." She threw him a sideways glance, grinning.
Harm scoffed. His element indeed, he thought irreverently. If this were his element, he wouldn't be the fully dressed male in the room. He smiled to himself, wondering how Mac would react if he shared that gem with her. He mixed together some green and brown on his palette and eyed his painting critically. Discovering beauty. Undressing beauty. He could do the latter. The former, he thought, maybe needed some work.
"Mystery captivates the imagination because it is in mystery that we seek hidden beauty." Madame Ivanski asserted.
Harm frowned, now annoyed by Madame's incessant talking. He once again glanced at Mac as he dabbed his brush in the light pink paint on his palette.
"I'm no art genius, and I'm no member of Mensa," he began sarcastically, "But isn't she just repeating herself? It's irritating."
"As a member, I can confirm that she is, and it is." Mac replied without looking up from her work.
He stopped with his brush hanging in midair and turned on his stool to face her fully.
"You're a member of Mensa? I didn't know that."
She shrugged indifferently, which immediately alerted him: there was a story behind this.
"Mac." He prompted her, half expecting not to get an answer.
"In law school, one of my professors – she was defence counsel during that Court TV circus, if you remember – told me I'd make a better lap dancer than a lawyer." She said while studiously concentrating on her painting.
"What?!" He didn't worry about keeping his voice down. What the hell kind of professor said that to a student?
"Harmon." Harm had to pause at the distinct way in which Madame Ivanski pronounced his name before he realized that she was addressing him. He looked up to find himself on the receiving end of a pointed glare. "Is there a problem?"
"No, Madame." Harm offered her his most charming smile.
She sniffed slightly before turning back to the student she was standing beside. "Beauty," she continued preaching, "Will answer those who ask with clear…"
Harm turned back to Mac, wondering if something about Russian speakers made them immune to his usually effective smile.
"Mac." He prodded again, and waited for her to look at him before continuing. "Why would she say that to you? You're smart…"
She shrugged again, this time indifference was replaced by vindication. "I wallowed in hurt for awhile." She resumed painting as she spoke. "Then drew up a battle plan. First, establish a quantifiable measure of intelligence. Then, kick ass in that law prof's class. I did both. Membership at Mensa was just a way for me to prove to myself that I could rely on my brains. Not my body."
Her steady strokes of brush on canvas stopped, and her gaze turned inward and distant all at once. He realized she was wandering down the could-have-beens of her life. She had done so well for herself, made so much out of the lot she was dealt. The miller's daughter who spun straw into gold - without any input from the annoying, ill-named gnome.
"You know, Mac, you'd make a great model." He said as if it were a casual observation.
His words were enough to pull her from her dark thoughts. She looked up at him, uncertainty written across her features.
"You're a good looking woman." He continued in a light tone. "Of course, you do have a tattoo."
She looked at him as though he had suddenly grown two heads and six breasts.
"Every now and then I catch you being nice." She said dubiously.
"Keep it to yourself, okay? I've got a reputation to protect." He grinned, sliding his chronic arrogance firmly back in place. She smiled in response, even as she rolled her eyes.
"Don't worry, Flyboy. No one would believe me, anyways." She went back to her painting, her smile still lingering in her eyes.
He shook his head, his grin widening. Mission accomplished, he congratulated himself.
Maybe this uncovering and discovering wasn't so hard.
His painting on the other hand … he studied it carefully. It was pretty alright, he thought. He'd put paint to canvas, mixed some colours together. Surely there was some texture in there too, whatever the hell that meant. It kind of looked like what he 'perceived'. Or, in any case, it would look like what he perceived if he could actually paint.
He glanced at Mac then back at his painting.
"You know Mac, you'd also make a good model because you're a mystery."
"What?" She turned to look at him, her brow creased in that way it did when she was confused by something he'd said.
The thought had him grinning.
"You are a mystery. What'd the Madame say?" He turned back to his painting. "'Mystery is where we find beauty'. Or something like that."
"What?" She repeated, this time her voice held the distinct breathlessness of disbelief.
He shrugged, and kept studying his painting to quell his nervousness.
"Yeah. I don't get you, a lot of the time. Like the Mensa thing. Or why you'd want to take up painting – beyond the scenic view of Stéphane, of course. Mystery." He turned on his stool to face her. "But for the life of me, I don't want to stop discovering and uncovering and finding all the secrets. I guess that's the beauty part."
The expression on her face as she looked at him was one of wonder. He gave her his best smile, winked, and then moved his easel so that she could see his painting.
Her eyes reluctantly left his and settled on his work of art. Well, more like work of heart, he amended, grinning stupidly at the sappy thought.
As she studied the painting, her brow again creasing with that particular look of confusion, he felt unusually self-conscious. He waited for her reaction.
She looked from the painting to him, questioning.
He nodded, this time not resisting the adolescent urge to laugh out of sheer giddiness. "You."
Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes widened as she took in the painting again.
"It's kind of an abstract painting, like I, ah, said before." He laughed again at the wondrous expression on her face. "I think both our brains have overdeveloped left sides."
"It's beautiful, Harm." She looked up at him, and he could see everything he ever needed to know in her eyes. "No one's ever painted me before." She whispered, suspended somewhere between awe and reverence.
He was about to stand up, gather her in his arms and kiss her like he was born to do, when he heard Madame Ivanski's voice beside him.
"Sarah! This is excellent."
Harm and Mac both started, and tore their gazes away from the other to look at Madame Ivanski.
"Uh, pardon?" She asked clumsily, making him smile. He watched her as she listened to Madame; he rarely got to see her caught off guard.
"You have captured Stéphane marvellously. His beauty is here. His mystery is here. Wonderful. This is wonderful." She clapped her hands together briskly, then turned to Harm's painting. "Harmon!"
It was Harm's turn to reply dumbly. "Uh, what?" He tried valiantly to pull his focus away from Mac and to Madame Ivanski.
"This is fantastic." She intoned, her severe voice slightly more melodic. He guessed this was as effusive as she could get. "I can see the essence of Stéphane in this. He is speaking to me. You two are very skilled in the language of beauty. Well done!" With that, Madame Ivanski continued on her official inspection tour.
Harm and Mac exchanged glances, then eyed his painting. He thought it looked like Mac, or at least it would if he knew how to paint.
"Well, that was embarrassing." Mac remarked. "It's not every day I get mistaken for a nude male model." She paused. "At least, I hope I don't."
Amused by the exchange, Harm's eyes followed Madame Ivanski as she progressed around the room. Either she was a hack, or he and Mac were both blind. Maybe he'd have his mom take a look at the painting to see what she 'perceived'. He shrugged absently, still thinking about Madame's comments, as he answered Mac. "It's actually quite funny. It'll be something to tell our grandkids."
From the corner of his eye, he saw her whip around to face him and almost fall off her stool in the process. He turned to look at her, concerned by her behaviour.
"What's wrong?" He asked solicitously.
Her mouth was hanging open, her eyes conveying her shock.
"What's wrong? It's not that bad, Mac." He reached out and rested his hand on her forearm, thinking she was overreacting a tad. "I mean, it's poor painting on my part more than it is you actually looking like a naked man. Trust me. There is nothing—"
"What did you say?" She cut through his rambling attempt to comfort her.
"What? What did I say?" He fumbled through his memory, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. "I said it's not that bad…"
"No," she shook her head quickly. "Before that."
She was beginning to worry him. "I said: it's actually quite funny." He paused, frowned in thought. "And it'd be something to tell our…" Grandkids. He'd said 'our grandkids'. "Oh."
He was about to recant and offer some half-hearted explanation out of this awkward situation, when he realized that she was watching him, her expression wavering between wariness and hope and amusement.
It occurred to him that this didn't have to be an awkward moment. Besides, he reasoned, kids and grandkids would come way later, after many sessions of undressing and discovering.
"Well," he began slowly, "That would be the natural progression, right?" He gained confidence with each passing word. "I don't just paint portraits of anyone, you know."
Her entire face broke out into a smile the likes of which he'd never before seen from her.
He mirrored it, thinking she looked exactly how he felt – except prettier. "And we'll make sure they have very balanced brains."
She laughed. "Deal."
He joined in her laughter, and resisted the urge to seal this deal with anything less than a kiss. Speaking of which, he couldn't exactly kiss her in here … he glanced down at his wristwatch.
"1958," Mac informed him. "We're done painting anyways. Let's start packing this stuff away."
He began collecting both their brushes, while she started packing away their tubes of paint and palettes.
"You're still buying dinner, Marine." He warned.
"I am," she replied. "Would it be okay if we went with your original idea and had Ethiopian?"
"Yeah, of course." He replied over the sudden din of their classmates all putting away their supplies and cleaning up.
"Great." She paused, and he recognized it as one of those pauses she took between questions. "Will you come with me again next week?" She asked tentatively.
He looked up to find her eyes fixed on him. "Mac…" He really didn't want to spend another hour in a class full of women painting naked men. She lightly bit her lower lip while waiting for his answer.
"Okay. Fine." He conceded. It was only an hour of one evening, he told himself.
She smiled brightly, and put her hand on his. "Thanks. And next time, if you want, I'll come out with you when you fly Sarah." She offered in return.
He couldn't hide his surprise. She hadn't flown in Sarah since that one time years ago, when she'd been shot and almost assaulted. "Really?"
"Sure. It's only fair." She paused halfway through putting away the tubes of paint, and turned to examine his painting. She looked at it for a long while in silence. "Thank you, Harm." She finally said, once again suspended between awe and reverence. "It really is beautiful."
He watched her as she admired his painting, and could find no reason to disagree. He reached for her hand and tugged her toward him. He took the paint tubes out of her hands and settled them on the easel. "Beautiful," he whispered to her. He placed her now empty hands on his waist, and wrapped his arms around her.
He admired her warm, expectant smile for a moment, looked into her eyes to once again find all he ever needed to know, and then he kissed her like he was born to do.
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The End