A/N: For those of you who've read my previous story and shorts, you know I'm a Harm/hero fan. Hopefully, you'll find this enjoyable. As I've said before, I frequently thought there were more plausible, more logical or realistic, paths to take our characters down... because I found many of the storylines dissatisfying, to say the least.

After my last long story (written a million years ago), I thought I wouldn't post another until it was complete. I've found that I can't actually get it written without some kind of pressure---so I'm starting. Since it isn't done I wanted you to know up front---for those who want to delay until the final part is posted. It should be 5 or 6 chapters, no telling how long each chapter will be. I can't make any claims---like everyone else, I'm just an amateur...

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 1

Although it was no-where near dawn, the sky was lightening. They were coming out of hell, leaving the dark behind and heading toward…well, what he anticipated would be a different kind of hell. It was getting lighter outside the windows of the small aircraft. Artificial light; radiating up into the hazy sky over metropolitan D.C.

It was still early summer, but there was a weather system stalled over the whole region. This level of heat and humidity was more like July or August than early May. Didn't that just fit with everything else? The whole thing was almost as bad as it could possibly have been. Almost. None of the good guys were dead, but some weren't too far from it. Talk about a classic FuBaR; some of it was indeed Beyond all Repair.

These thoughts, and what seemed to be a million others, were swirling around Harm's brain, filling his head with chaos. He rubbed his eyes again, trying to release the pain, or soothe it, or dull it… or anything but the constant throbbing. He hadn't slept during the long flight; every time he closed his eyes, the pounding elevated to jackhammer level.

The previous night, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He figured he'd gotten yet another concussion but there was just too much riding on his ability to function for sleep. Now that circumstances allowed him to sleep, he couldn't. He longed for a cold cloth and a hot shower. And oblivion.

So his brain kept swirling. And with it, his simmering anger was held just below the boiling point.

Not far from his seat, Mac seemed barely sane. For the most part, she was marginally coherent, the trauma of the previous days taking its toll. Occasionally, she'd focus on Clay resting in the back. The rest of the time, she seemed, well… traumatized.

The landing into Andrews was uneventful. A couple of dark vehicles waited along the runway, occupied no doubt by suits that were none too pleased with the whole thing, start-to-finish. And, in spite of some resolution, the screw-ups outweighed by far everything else. There was way too much collateral damage and way too many unhappy bureaucrats. The fact that he defused the stinger missile threat was only marginal consolation, because of the fallout there, too. A wrecked plane that belonged to some innocent bystander who was now demanding restitution, multiple sites of fires and explosions that had the Paraguay government riled up, two hostages murdered that would undoubtedly prompt international outrage and agents that were half dead.

Well, to hell with all of it! He'd finally been pushed to his limit. All these years, in the face of various adversities, he'd sucked it up, put one foot in front of the other and carried on. Not this time. Not this way.

He started down the stairs, aware that the gunny was helping Mac. He knew Gunny was injured too, but he just couldn't find it in himself to care, especially if it meant dealing with her. Because now, she'd said it: Never. The dance was done…it was done and over with. He saw the admiral standing nearby and led their small group of three that way. Forefront in his mind: time to get the hell out of here.

A harsh voice cut the heavy air, "What the hell happened down there?" The airfield, itself, was well-lit, but, like all CIA activities, they were in the shadows. Did these people ever stop playing these ridiculous spy games? He saw that Harm was navigating under his own power and that another marine was assisting a member of his staff. "Mac?"

Of the three, only Gunny responded to the admiral's presence. "The Colonel is uninjured, Sir; just a bit battered."

"Galindez, is that you? What the hell? I get a call at 2300 telling me to be out here ASAP. No explanation. You want to fill me in? Dammit, Rabb, what the hell? You turn your back on everything else, and look how this ends up." He paused, rubbing his hand over his head. "Once again, there seem to be a lot of feathers ruffled and a lot of collateral damage. Dammit, Rabb!" He paused again, noticing activity over by the plane.

Mac responded to the raised voices behind her. She turned to see several others---no one she recognized---helping get Clay out of the plane and toward one of the cars. She turned back to admiral, seemed to attempt to speak, but turned away again and headed toward the others. Watching her half walk – half stumble, he returned his attention to Harm, raising his voice with each word.

"What the hell happened down there? And what the hell happened to her? What the hell happened to Webb? Dammit, Rabb!" He paused and ran his hand over his head once again. Lowering his voice he continued. "I suppose you expect me to process you back now, is that right? You went and saved the day, 'though right now it doesn't seem saved to me. I imagine you're expecting to come back the hero. Well, I've had it with your st…". Harm cut him off, more abruptly than he had ever spoken to a superior.

"No, Sir! I don't expect anything." He turned to see Mac leaning toward the cluster of men surrounding Webb. The anger, the frustration --- the headache --- was beginning to get the upper hand. He turned back to the admiral, "I'm done. She's your problem now." Leaving a speechless admiral in his wake, he walked further into the shadows before disappearing from sight.

After getting Mac and Gunny into his car, he followed the others up to a health clinic just off the Beltway in Maryland. The ride was filled with tension as Mac sat silently. He could tell she was teetering on the edge. A damned thin edge. Gunny was in better shape, but he wasn't offering any insight. The admiral decided it would just be best to hold off on anything else until everything, and everyone, was stabilized. As soon as they pulled in, she left his car and returned to Clay. Gunny and the admiral kept a bit of a distance in following them into the building.

While it looked to the outside like an elite spa, it was really a high security clinic for the CIA. A team was waiting at the door with a gurney for Webb and other staff greeted both Mac and Gunny, escorting them toward private rooms. Mac kept her focus on Webb until they disappeared into a different room and closed the door. Then she allowed herself to be led into her own room. Chegwidden had never seen her so compliant; that in and of itself told of the depth of this.

Gunny was no longer under his command and Webb never had been. But she was part of his staff, and by God, he wasn't being relegated to a waiting room! If they didn't want to deal with him, they shouldn't have called him in on this. So he followed along into the room where staff was setting her on an exam table and beginning the process of gathering vital signs. One of the staff members began to ask him to step out but his glare told her otherwise. She tried to get Mac to respond, using her to influence the admiral's defiance, but Mac continued to stare toward the door. She didn't seem fully aware of what was going on around her, and while she did follow basic commands, she didn't respond verbally to any requests. After some time, she began to inquire about Webb and the longer they had no information for her, the more anxious she became.

It wasn't all that long before he was able to understand that she had no real physical injuries, that she was exhausted and stressed and that some sleep, some recovery time and some reassurance about Webb would get her somewhat functional. Gunny, too, was stable and treatment for his injury was straightforward. He seemed to be faring the best of this little quartet. And speaking of a quartet, he needed to find out what Rabb really meant by his statement before disappearing.

**********************************

He couldn't ever remember being more relieved when walking in the door. He dropped all his gear as soon as he was inside and went in search of some aspirin. Gulping down four, he began his task. He had decided on the ride home that he needed a plan---a plan that didn't included hanging around dealing with the fallout of all of this. He was out of the Navy, he was done with the CIA, and he needed to extend that to personal relationships too. He stripped down to his boxers and threw the clothes in the washer. Then he grabbed the phone. Even with the headache, he was coherent enough---and had picked up enough CIA paranoia--- to use the landline; cell records were too easy to access.

Ring, Ring… Even though it was so late, the woman on the other end picked-up, recognizing the number displayed on the Caller ID.

"Hello?"

"It's Harm."

"Harm! Honey, is everything OK?"

"I need a place to lay low for a couple of days. I hate to ask---can you help me out?"

"Of course, hon. But can you give me an hour or so?"

"Yeah, it'll probably take me longer than that. I need a place to keep the car, too."

"The garage is secure … still the same code; you remember where to park?"

"Yeah. See you later…" With that he placed the receiver back into the cradle. He stepped away from the phone only to turn back to it, pick it up and dial his own number. That would limit the ability to check the redial. He hated himself for even thinking it. Had it really come to this? He gave himself a shake and headed toward the shower.

A couple of hours later found him filling his sea bag with his civilian clothes. Dirty uniforms were already down in the SUV to be left with the drycleaner on another day; the rest were hanging neatly in the closet. He wouldn't need them again.

The bed was stripped, the linens in the wash; the dryer was already running. He had folded the blankets and stacked them with the pillows on the foot of the bed. The few extra linens he owned were already covering furniture, the rest would cover the other pieces when he took them from the dryer.

This was the scene when the knock came on the door. He ignored it, knowing it could only be one of a very few possibilities. He didn't want to talk to any of them---some even less than others. After a few minutes, a second knock and a second few minutes, the knob turned and the door opened. Damn, why didn't I lock that door? The admiral stepped in and surveyed the apartment.

He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and watched as Harm continued without pause.

"So, it's come to this?"

"Yeah." A couple of minutes… silence.

"You're just walking away?"

"Yeah." More silence.

"It doesn't have to be this way." The admiral rubbed his hand over his head for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past couple of hours. "We don't have to let this play out."

"Oh, no? What exactly were you going to say before I left?" Again, more silence. Then…

"Harm…"

"No." He took a breath and finally turned to the man he had worked for---and respected---for years, with anger and resentment that surprised even himself. "It can't be any other way. You wanted a resignation, you got it. You got your deniability. But they all already know you turned your back on the Marine code. You'll lose any remaining credibility you have." He paused himself, sighed and looked away. "Just look at how the last year's been…" he trailed off, then spoke again with a voice of resignation and defeat: "And, honestly, I don't want to be there after this anyway. Let somebody else deal with the fallout now."

"What about the colonel?"

"What about her? She's made her choice. I'm not doing this again." He began to raise his voice, with each word his anger became stronger. "I'm not doing any of this anymore. I've had it with everything---Webb, her," pause… "you … everything. I've done my share for king and country. I've done my duty…" He finally took a breath, looked around and then turned back to the task at hand. "Close the door on your way out." It was a while before the Admiral spoke again.

"For what it's worth, Harm. I am sorry about all of this. If you ever need anything..." With that, he left.

***************************************

It was at least another hour, with dawn just on the horizon, before he turned into the garage; as always the check-point manned and guards at the ready. He entered a code into the keypad and the gate opened while they looked on. He didn't come around here often and it had been years since he actually drove into the exclusive residential complex. The money that changed hands here and the activities behind these walls were far from the military life he knew so well. But he'd known her since his days at Georgetown Law and the bond they formed then, both looking for their own place in world in spite of some difficult challenges, remained as strong as ever. Worlds apart, the trust remained. And when he needed somewhere to turn but nowhere else to go, she was there.

A short walk to the elevator, another code entered and he was transported from the world he knew to some place so far removed, it may well have been a million miles away. The décor was tasteful in its sophistication, opulent in its simplicity. It was everything he, and the military, wasn't. But it was safe---hidden from the world he usually walked in---the world he used to walk in. He rang the bell to the huge suite within, barely able to stand after so many hours. She almost gasped when she opened the door and looked at the man she'd known so well, for so long---and barely recognized now. Immediately, she knew the depth, even without the details, of the situation.

"Harm! Baby, come in… Oh, honey, what's happened? Come sit." She led him by the hand and called for an assistant. "Get his bag and put it in my room. Then go cover his car---it's the red corvette?" She turned to look at Harm as she gave the directions, confirming the details. The young man, Harm knew he must be well-trusted to be in her inner circle, picked up the bag and disappeared. She turned back to Harm. "Honey, we can keep it out of sight but they may still be able to track it. I don't really trust the electronics to hide the GPS signal."

"It's OK. I removed it. Set it right on the counter for anyone to see---it they actually look. I could use a drink. Got anything?"

"Not for someone in your condition. Come on, sweetie, let's get you in bed, we'll talk later." She led him to the bedroom he knew to be her own private room. Only those closest to her came in here. Other staff, well-paid but well -watched didn't come this far---and certainly not clients. There were other bedrooms for that, all with different themes, depending on who she, or another employee, was 'entertaining' at the time. Given the hour, he knew they were probably empty. The assistant came back with a hot beverage in his hand, and handed it to her.

"I thought this might be helpful, Ma'am."

"Thank you, Tommy. Make sure there are no disruptions." While he had responded so quickly before, he now hesitated. He had worked for her for almost a year, privy to the most private situations, but he'd never seen nor heard of this man before. "It's alright. He's an old friend. You'll treat him just as you treat me." He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

She offered the mug to Harm, keeping her hand on it while he placed it to his lips and took a few sips, then she set the mug on the nightstand and began to undress Harm. He trusted her enough to let her---and he was just too tired to stop her. She offered his a few more few sips midway through her task, which he obediently swallowed. She could smell the scent of his soap so she stripped off even his underclothing and led him into the bed. He couldn't keep his eyes open and she stroked his face and hair gently, whispering until he fell into deep sleep. When she was sure he wouldn't stir, she slid in beside him, laying her hand on his chest with the hope that would keep him quiet until he was somewhat rested.

**************************************

His first awareness was that the headache, though lessened, still remained. It was barely light but he could see her in the sitting area, reading near the window. She had no lamps on but what little natural light came through the windows; even that hurt his eyes. The headache was increasing by the second and he moaned. She was near him in seconds, again whispering quietly, using feather-light touches to calm him.

"Time?"

"About eight."

"Good. A dreary day." He put his head back for a moment and just enjoyed the soft strokes. He didn't think he'd be able to get on with the plan if he had to contend with bright sunshine all day. He started to get up from the bed but she stopped him with her hands on his chest.

"Honey, that's eight, P.M. You've been sleeping for over fourteen hours. And you're not going anywhere now. Whatever you want to do can wait until morning. Right now, I'm getting some nourishment in you and then you can tell me what's been happening." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

It was over an hour later that he'd eaten a light meal then showered. He was lying on her sofa and she replaced a cool compress on his forehead. He'd barely said a handful of words. She began to gently caress his temples and studied what she saw of his face. She knew a lot of men over the years, and she knew a lot about men. But Harmon Rabb was a different story altogether.

He was a man of few words---except in the courtroom. She had seen him once, several years prior, interviewing a witness on the stand, objecting occasionally while studying opposing counsel, and then giving a closing argument. She could only guess that his skills had improved over the years. They must have: she'd read his name in the paper a time or two in relation to legal proceedings of the government. And his ability must have been recognized and appreciated: a few years previous he'd been cited as counsel to the congresswoman from Michigan and he was involved in some terror-related trial aboard a ship several months previous.

Still, when it came to personal interaction, he didn't say much. They'd had a few serious conversations over the years but he was not what she'd call a chat-ter. In the beginning they were friends. She'd worked at a small place that was a popular hangout for new law students like him, full-time students but older than many of the 22- and 23- year old students new to Georgetown Law. Most of them had seen a lot more of life than those younger kids. But Harm, he was even more different. There was a sadness about him, almost a despair. It touched her heart and drew her toward him.

But her work didn't provide her enough money and she didn't have the drive to go back to school, nor to enter into the conventional world of the career woman. It wasn't that she planned it---she didn't seek this life. But once it started, and she became comfortable with it, she took control over the development and became a rather high-priced 'professional'. She remained under the radar and kept her business simple. She was known for her discretion and prudence. And the girls who worked with her, she'd kept them in line with the same practices. They kept no records and everything was cash. Harm had given her legal advice over the years, but she never asked for anything that would put him at risk. He had recommended other attorneys to her, but she never proceeded until she got his take on their suggestions and method of representation. Fortunately, there wasn't much of a need... She worked hard at maintaining the level of her clandestine activities.

He was dozing; the shower alone had tired him out. The headache was manageable, as long as he didn't move too much; then the throbbing started again. After a few more minutes she shook his shoulder gently, trying to rouse him.

"Harm, honey, come on… Back to the bed. You'll feel better after another night's sleep." He blinked a few times, almost as though he was disoriented---yep, a concussion for sure; then seemed recognize her as he began to rise. He stopped after the first step.

"What about tonight? Don't you have to *work*? I can get lost for a while…" She was shaking her head and kept pulling him toward the bedroom, even as he spoke.

"Darling, I cleared my schedule. It's only you tonight. Let me help you." As they neared the bed, she helped him remove his shirt and she began to embrace him. He bristled. The anger was back and it was palpable.

"Honey, let it go. You know it'll make you sleep better, feel better…" He shook his head, that sadness that she saw in him all those years ago, was back---in spades. The loss he experienced just before they met was intense, and it enveloped him. This was worse---it seemed to completely consume him. And she knew him well enough to know it made him angry… angrier, actually.

"No." She never known him to be like this: as though he were defeated by it all. "I don't want…"

She ran her hands down his arms and took his hands. "I can be whatever… whoever you need…"

She knew him so well. And he knew she knew. Though their interactions were infrequent, moreso in the past couple of years, she still knew all of it---he confided in her. It was all so slow in building, over so many years. He confided in her, bit by bit, and she listened, remembered, always supported and empathized with him. It was what made her so good at what she did, so successful with those who 'hired' her so loyally and confidently.

At that, his reaction became stronger. "No!" He pulled away, turned away. The sadness became pain, and it radiated off him. "She doesn't want me…"

"Oh, honey. I can't believe…"

He wiped at his eyes then grasped the back of his neck, rubbing a bit. "She made another choice… I can't watch it again. I'm NOT going to watch it again!"

She approached him from behind, and put her hands in front of his shoulders as she rested her face against his back. She stayed that way for a minute or two, until she felt his tension begin to release.

"Come on, sweetheart, get some sleep." She led him to the bed and guided him to lie down. Again, she lay beside him but he turned away. She caressed his back and whispered, "It's OK… sshh... it'll be OK…"

***End of chapter 1***