Straight Into Your Arms
Disclaimer: JAG and its characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions. I'm just borrowing them for my, and hopefully other people's entertainment. No monetary gain is made from this endeavor.
What if Harm had arrived, in "A Tangled Webb" Part One, just a little bit later than what we have seen on the show?
AN: This story was written for Pixie's 'What If' ficathon; my thanks go out to Dea for providing this great prompt!
Warmest thanks go out my wonderful 'research assistant' Staz, who answered countless questions – repeatedly – and did her best to find out exactly what I needed to know to make this story stick.
o o o o o o
Straight Into Your Arms
Everything happened as if in slow motion. As if someone had pressed a button on a distant remote and now every one of his motions was jerky, every sensory information delayed. And yet later, he would remember nothing about these minutes. Nothing until her scream pierced the air. And he knew that he was too late.
Harm was operating on auto-pilot; set to 'mission-mode'. His legs, his arms, they simply followed the subconscious, deeply engrained orders of his brain. After hearing the shots fired, Gunny and he had made their entrance. Killed a few of the terrorists. Appropriated their weapons. Then had split up, Gunny running toward the main house, Harm around back, searching for Webb and Mac, oblivious to where they might find them. Or even if.
He ran. Took cover. Fired shots. Ran some more. Ever closer toward what looked like an old shed.
That was when her scream reverberated through the air. Harm knew immediately that it was Mac's voice. And yet he had never heard her like this before. Fear shot right through his heart and plummeted into his stomach. Then all was quiet. Above the deafening bellowing of machine gun fire, Harm was aware only of the silence of her voice. He was too late.
When he reached the shed, he forcefully swung open the door, trying to make use of the surprise moment as much as possible.
Everything hit him all at once: The nauseating stench of burnt flesh. The sickeningly sweet tang of blood. The stale, chokingly hot air. The arduous scramble of the terrorist, trying to reach his gun. And peripherally, of having found her.
High on adrenaline, his arm shot up, firing two holes into the chest of that bastard who had done this to her. Watched with detached satisfaction as he crumbled to the ground, blood gushing out of his wounds. Then surveyed his surroundings until he was certain they were the only ones left in the shed. And only then could he focus on her. His gut knotted, and cold fear crept through every part of him as he had never felt before. Oh God, he was too late. She was dead.
Mac was stretched out on a rickety wooden table, her arms and legs shackled to it with rusty metal cuffs. Her hands dangled lifelessly over the sides of the table. There was no movement detectable, nothing at all.
For a second, he was afraid of approaching closer. If he didn't, then maybe it wouldn't be true.
And then he was by her side within the next heartbeat. Fearful and shaky, yet desperately wishing, hoping, calling on higher powers. Please, please, please let her be alright. She couldn't be dead!
Harm's fingers were shaking when he reached out to her neck. And then his knees buckled and a bout of nausea washed over him. There it was, under his fingertips, weak but regular. Her pulse. He laid his other hand on her chest and brought his face close to hers, to feel rather than see her breathing. Thins wisps of moist air hit his cheek, and there was a barely detectable up and down movement of her chest. The relief he felt was so overwhelming that tears welled up in his eyes.
"Mac," he called out to rouse her. First softly, then with growing volume, "Mac!" Yet it was to no avail. She remained unconscious, her body knocked out by whatever atrocities had been done to her. Scanning her form, he noticed with relief that at least, her clothing was still intact; even the fake pregnancy belly was still strapped onto her. Her face was scraped and chapped, a bruise shone on her right cheek in an angry red. There was blood splattered over the front of her shirt, but it didn't seem to have come from her.
Quickly, he plied open the metal cuffs, then carefully scooped Mac up, one arm under her knees, the other under her arms that dangled down heavily. Her head lolled against shoulder. Standing in the middle of that torture shack, he remained immovable for long moments, just holding her close. Feeling that ultimate sign of life, her soft breath, fan against his neck. Her body in his arms, fragile and small where there usually was strength and power.
Gradually, he became aware of the eerie silence that had taken over the compound. No more yelling and shouting, no more gun salvos rupturing the stillness of the air. He realized that they might just be the only two people still alive. He had to get them out of there.
TBC