PAS DE DEUX
Genre: Romance/ Angst with a maybe a bit of wry humor.
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: Characters and incidents from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario/ Belasarius Productions/ Paramount/ CBS and who knows who else. This story is strictly not-for-profit—just a way to share the joys and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. Any other characters/ incidents are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent anyone living or dead, so any resemblances are coincidental.
Spoilers: Primarily "All Ye Faithful" but does presume general knowledge of JAG. I haven't seen all the episodes, so any goofs are my own.
Author's Notes: While I am imagining this as a sort of epilogue to my fanfic "While Mortals Sleep" I've tried to write it so most of it would be understandable even if you haven't read the other story.
This story is sort of a "grand pas de deux"—a dance for two, for Harm and Mac. I am playing with point of view here and hope readers will let me know if it is TOO confusing.
I can barely manage the shift to DST each year, so no Zulu or military time here. Maybe someday I will learn.
Chapter One: Entrée
Residence of Harriet and Bud Roberts
Christmas Eve
It's funny how sometimes the smallest, most ordinary gesture strikes right through you. Suddenly, the door opens and he's there, just wiping his feet on the mat. You find your heart racing like the middle of a marathon and little millenium-bash fireworks are going off in your brain. All the day's worry—knowing he was flying (an aspirin-gulping, splitting-headache-inducing jaunt in a Tomcat no less) and then waiting and waiting, not knowing where he was or what had happened to him—all that just melts away. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—Harm in one piece, in his blues, lifting his cover and tucking it under his arm, scraping the snow from his expertly polished shoes.
I want to jump up and hug him. Hell, I want to shake him, too. Maybe yell a little. Doesn't he know the damn telephone has been invented? But he's okay. And he's here. I just sit here, watching him turn toward the dining room, manage his apologetic greeting, and slide into the empty chair across the table from mine. And then, he smiles at me.
Not his flyboy grin, but a slower, easier, gentler smile. Not exactly apologetic, but tentative. And his eyes are touching me, his gaze brushing my forehead, caressing my shoulder… suddenly, I feel almost shy. Then I notice the empty space above his bars.
Those large, dark serious eyes of hers are smiling at me across the room. As I near the table I notice that she's done something different with her hair—it has that tossed, sweet disorder look. By candlelight it's darker than usual but still has those fiery highlights. And that dress. Mmm. So soft. Muted colors--sort of floral. The soft way it hugs those classy shoulders, follows the curves of her breasts…. Keep your eyes on her face, Hammer. You've got to get through this evening. The guys that design women's uniforms know what they are doing. Civilian dress is downright dangerous. Especially this sort of dress. Particularly on Sarah.
Of course, she notices the missing wings right away. You can't put anything over on my Marine. She brushes a finger against her chest, her brows arch, her forehead furrows-- the way it does when she's puzzling over a point in a case and she's just about to argue with me--, and she mouths, "Your wings?" I form the words, "I'll tell you later." I want there to be a later. So far, nothing about this Christmas has gone as planned. It is time to take back the throttle and find cruising altitude. Far off, Bud's voice is proclaiming a toast to us all--straight out of Dickens. I lift my glass to her. She raises hers and reaches it toward me. The table is too wide-- our hands can't touch. But our eyes do.
* * * * * *
Harm's account of the would-be Blue Angel at the Wall has Bud and the Admiral chuckling. I smile, too, but wonder. Why did he go to the Wall before the party? After all, he was already running late. And he usually goes after the midnight service. We're—that is the whole crew of us--kind of falling into a tradition of going there after the party. Harm usually leaves the church alone, heading to the Wall to keep his promise. But this year is different. And I'm still not sure how to take it. He hasn't been more than the table's width away from me since he got here.
When we'd finished dessert, for instance, and I started to clear the table, Harm was at my side, gently pulling the stack of plates out of my hands and suggesting that I tackle the silverware. As if I couldn't manage the weight of a few pieces of china. Has he lost his mind? The warmth of his fingers brushing against mine sent a sort of tactile buzz up my arms and I felt my heart lurch, like a dinghy in a sudden swell. I tried to growl at him, but all I could do was grin, stupidly. Like a girl in the presence of her fifth-grade crush. Only my fifth-grade crush had freckles, spiky blonde hair that always looked like he'd just run his fingers through it, and baby fat. And Harm is…this meticulously polished, broad-shouldered, dangerously handsome flyboy, standing so close that our arms touch when I breathe, when he makes a gesture.
We haven't been alone yet this evening, but we haven't been parted, either. We're standing here, in the middle of this party, and I feel like I'm a dancer on stage somewhere, standing frozen in the spotlight—a dancer who has forgotten the steps. Or maybe I never even knew them. Suddenly I'm the klutz who's always stepping on the guy's shoes, hopeless even at following. And there's never been anyone strong enough to catch me, when I leap out into the darkness between us. Harm said it once himself, something like "Every one who's ever dated her is either dead or wishes he was." Sarah Mackenzie girl disaster area. Jinx. Loser. But then, Harm's been so kind, too. And tonight, he's keeping so close. Even while he's talking with the Admiral, he keeps giving me these little sideways glances. Every time our eyes meet, I feel my heart flutter, foolishly. Once I realized I had been holding my hand there, just under my collarbone, as if I needed to keep my heart from breaking its moorings.
When Harriet shooed us out of the kitchen, he was right behind me, making noises about needing to find a willing woman and some mistletoe. Just as I laughed and said I was sure Jenn Coates would be glad to cooperate, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to a halt under a little ball of green leaves and white berries Harriet had hung strategically over the entrance to the great room.
I can feel this foolish grin spreading from the corners of my mouth over every inch of my face. I feel like a guy at a middle-school dance, all legs and arms and awkwardness. Then she looks up at me, her face serious. Her eyes are so dark, they make me think, suddenly, of the shaded archways in those Moorish buildings in Spain, meant to draw you in to the sweet cooling touch of the shade. But, as I put my hands on her shoulders, she stiffens a little. She seems unsure, somehow. Dammit. I shouldn't have ambushed her like that on the Seahawk. Ten to one she thinks I was walking away, that I didn't really want her, maybe that I didn't mean it, when I was trying, for once, to show her just how much she really means to me.
With my hands still on her shoulders, I pull back a little. "Hey, Mac" I say, willing my voice to stay steady, throwing my head back just a little, but keeping my eyes on hers, "You don't haveta, you know. I suspect a Marine Colonel outranks a bunch of mistletoe any day." That gets a smile. A little one. Then—of all things—downcast eyes. Damn, she's so vulnerable. Then a whisper, "Hey, Sailor, I wouldn't want you to think the Marines can't…that I wouldn't…." She presses her lips together and looks up at me. She can't finish the joke. And I can't keep from bending down to kiss her very, very lightly on the lips. Her mouth is so soft, I can't help but linger just a little. She doesn't pull away. Then she parts her lips ever so slightly and slides her hands up till her fingers rest on my shoulder bars. My lips move with hers, pressing a little more firmly. My heart is pounding.
Then I hear a familiar baritone, " I wasn't under the impression that people ambushed by mistletoe had to keep at it till someone came to their rescue." We pull apart. But my arms are still around her waist as our heads turn in one twin motion to see Sturgis, lifting his glass of Scotch toward us and smiling broadly. "I suspect that you two may have just broken some sort of Christmas record."
Harm releases me slowly, and then turns to clap Sturgis on the back. "Jealous, huh?" He flashes Sturgis that flyboy grin. "You always did envy my success with the ladies." As they start trading old boy insults, I keep thinking of those moments in my quarters on the Seahawk and at the dance in the ward room. Remembering what it's like to be in his arms with no one around, to be dancing with him where no one cares, sort of takes my breath away. The laughter and talk wash around me lightly, like Chesapeake waves. It's warm by the fireside, so I hope to heaven the Admiral won't notice that I'm blushing at my own thoughts. I have this vivid memory of the warmth of Harm's hand on the small of my back, of his mouth on mine just minutes ago, and seeming—at least for the moment--to mean that kiss.
And suddenly, I am afraid that it's all something I've made up to comfort myself, to fool myself into keeping going. Maybe I'm just turning to fantasies about Harm to keep from using the bottle. Making love to him in my mind to wipe out the memory of the explosion, of scrambling through the rubble, of the sound of the child's screams, of the smell of blood and its sticky, clinging touch. I tighten my grip on my glass of ginger ale and try to focus on what the Admiral's saying about the bumbling Eastern visitors he's already labeled "The Three Kings of the Beltway."
I steal a glance at Mac and notice that her smile has vanished. Her eyes have a far away look and she's holding her glass so tightly that the tendons on the back of her hand stand out in clear relief. I don't know what to make of that. Mac's been quiet tonight. Smiling a lot—till just now--but not saying much. I am only half-listening to the Admiral's account of some modern day Magi hopelessly lost in traffic.
Mac seemed happy to see me. Glowing even. I go back over the few words we exchanged over dinner, that mistletoe business, racking my brains, trying to think if I've said or done anything she'd be likely to take offense at. Hell, surely she didn't expect me to sail in here, grab her up in my arms, and declare to all assembled that she is the love of my life? Renee might fantasize about that, maybe, but not Mac. She has at much at stake at JAG as I have. Surely she realizes we're going to have to work things out one step at a time.
But she looks so sad. And I'll admit that I've got a gift for hurting her. Mac, that is. Renee, too, I guess. Hell, maybe every woman I've ever been with. But with Mac, serious damage. I want to put my arm around her and draw her close, but I settle for a gentle, brief touch of my hand on her shoulder as I ask, "Do you need more, Mac?" She gives me this blank look. I point to her glass. "Your drink." Then she's back with us. "No thanks, Sailor." Then there's this silence. One of those lulls in the conversation that settle in now and then, like a brief fog. Gram always says it happens when an angel is passing
through. In this case, it seems like the angel of awkwardness.
The Admiral is looking at Mac. It's one of his searching, intense, Navy-Seal- turned-Godfather looks, only half-camouflaged by the glass of eggnog he's sipping from. He's noticed how subdued Mac is. And has good reason to suspect me as the culprit. His eyes measure the lack of distance between Mac and me, slowly sweeping up the length of our arms, which are, just now, touching from wrist to shoulder. Then he looks me straight in the eye and raises his brows. "Tell us about your flight tonight, Commander," he says in an even voice. "Something tells me that you have been exercising your genius for trouble again, son." The Admiral sets his eggnog on the mantle and folds his arms into his listening stance as I begin what I hope is a lighthearted and engaging account of the Jennifer Lopez con, the weather balloon, and the planeload of toys. Better to be Rudolph than to upset Mac with the boy-hero- into- the- jaws-of-death version.
Harm tries to make it sound like another one of his flyboy larks. You know, the "hey, sure we had a few problems, but no biggie" line of storytelling. But I see a sort of shadow in his eyes, just a flash of pain, between the mysterious impact and the revelation that they'd hit a balloon. He lost control for a moment. Not here. But there. Not of the story, but of the plane. Back there in the darkness. Where losing control means death. I try to smile, but it feels forced. Suddenly I want to let go of the tears I have been holding back all day. Not here. Get a grip, Marine.
I have to admit, I have Bud and the Admiral in stitches over my Christmas Eve adventures with the CAG. I keep looking at Mac out of the corner of my eye to gauge her response. Sober as a judge—of the Marine persuasion. So I ratchet up the comedy a notch or two, mugging for all I am worth. She knows she should be taking it lightly, so she puts on one of those tight little smiles she usually reserves for Singer, annoying male clients, and any woman she thinks I'm bedding. I even work in a few bars of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" for foggy Christmas Eve effect. No dice.
Harm is so close I can smell his after shave and the slightly cedary scent of his jacket. I want to lean against him. I want him to hold me again. Not here, of course. Suddenly, I have this image of Harm sweeping me into his arms in a sort of tango move, right here in front of the Admiral. Even in the fantasy, I am still nursing this quarter of a glass of ginger ale which sprays into the air with the exaggerated slow motion of a movie shot, ending in droplets on the Admiral's frowning eyebrows.
Just when the conversation moves on to the Roberts's money woes, Mac starts giggling. "Sorry" she manages to mutter, waving a raised palm side to side in a negative gesture, "it's…not you, Bud…not funny…I just…"
"A little too heavy on the ginger ale, Jarhead?" As soon as it's out of my mouth I know that I have just done a bellyflopper off the flight deck. Drinking jokes are entirely off limits. And for good reason. She kind of gasps, like I've just flung the ginger ale in her face. Then she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and retorts, "No way, Sailor. I just had one very vivid mental picture of you with a red beacon nose, that's all--Commander Rudolph."
Bud and the Admiral laugh politely. At least she's joking about it. But her smile is lopsided and her eyes have gone dark. With the glass still in her hand she's sort of hugging herself, the heel of the hand holding her drink balanced against the crook of her left elbow. Her arms are golden in the firelight, the long, lean muscles taut under the smoothness of her skin. She's gorgeous and she's in pain. And I'm the one who's just committed high treason and maybe, in one stupid-ass move, wounded Mac. That's it Rabb, turn a decent evening together into a friendly fire incident. There's court-martial in her eyes.
The Admiral is glaring at Harm. Bud looks a little confused. I can't meet Harm's eyes because I'm afraid of what I'll read there. Maybe he's just using humor to create a little distance between us. Maybe he needs those room dividers, after all. Hell, maybe he doesn't even realize the signals he's been sending, standing so close. Or, maybe he's just so wrapped up in his own damned-glorious charmed-flyboy mode he can't stop playing the game. Suddenly, I am standing in the rain outside Harm's place again, watching him comfort Renee, his arms gently encircling her, his lips on her hair. "Come to me," he said then. And just a few days ago, "We've got to take our always one day at a time, Mac." But what do those words mean, coming from him?
Harriet, bless her, rescues me from my thoughts, coming to enlist my help in advising Jenn about apartment hunting. As she hauls me off to the other side of the room, I let myself risk just a glance at Harm's face. His chin is lowered a little, he is watching me walk away, with eyes full of concern. He makes a little shoulder-hunching, head tilting 'I'm sorry' gesture. I try to smile. He takes a step forward, as if to follow me. I shake my head, and turn to follow Harriet. Now I'm the one who needs the room dividers. We've reached some sort of no-man's-land. Somewhere behind us, a friendship I don't want to lose. Ahead, uncharted territory. I don't think I can do this. But something in me whispers that it is too late to turn back.