Disclaimer: Don't own'em
--
Flicker
Harm meandered his way along the paved path leading from the driveway to the front porch. He inhaled deeply as he went, relishing that peculiar scent of autumn; of wood smoke and dying leaves and the sharp, cool undercurrent portending winter. It was a beautiful night. It had been a beautiful day, too. Or so it had seemed to him from the confines of his office.
He shook his head in disgust as he dug into his pocket in search of the house key. What a waste of a day. Stuck in the office for what was supposed to be two hours of his Saturday, but ended up being an entire day and the whole evening. Not only had he missed dinner with Mac and the kids – it was his turn to cook, too – but it was also past the kids' bedtime. And he'd been so keenly looking forward to seeing the expression on Mac's face when he surprised her with his planned dinner for tonight: vegetarian tacos – or 'Tofucos', as he'd christened them. It was bound to be as good as that time he'd pulled out the Meatless Meatloaf recipe a few weeks ago. The memory of the expression on Mac's face when Matt and Katie had not only dug in with gusto, but actually raved about his Meatless Meatloaf non-stop for the rest of the week still made him feel smug with validation. And she'd told him it was comparable to toxic waste. Ha.
Harm turned the key in the lock, and pushed open the door. The house was quiet – to be expected since the trifecta of terror were snugly tucked in their beds, dreaming the night away – and he could smell the wood fire Mac had started in the living room. He could also see the warm, flickering glow from the flames in the hallway, through the entrance to the living room. He set down his briefcase, removed his coat and jacket – the one thing he hated about cool weather was all the layers of outerwear – and loosened his tie, thinking that nothing sounded more appealing right now than watching the fire, with his arms wrapped around Mac. And if they happened to be too wrapped up in each other to pay much attention to the fire, he wouldn't complain.
He made his way to the living room in his socks, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves as he went.
He found her curled into a corner of the couch, a throw covering her legs, engrossed in the book that lay open on her lap. He leaned against the entrance to the living room, admiring how the flames flickered in her eyes and made her skin glow with warm, coppery hues. She could have been a statue cast in bronze.
"Hey, Mac."
"Hey, yourself." She looked up, her smile warm and intimate. "How was your day?" He returned her smile with one of his own, then pushed himself off the doorway. Why admire her from a distance, when he could sit right next to her.
"Finally looking up." He replied, crossing the living room. She tilted her head as he neared, seeking out a kiss. He gladly complied before settling by her side.
Her eyes sparkled at his words, but he didn't get the anticipated smile. Something was definitely up; she was much too quiet, subdued.
"How was your day?" He asked, casually – or so he hoped – searching her face for some indication for her mood.
She shrugged lightly. "Good. Kids missed you."
And he'd missed them. He tried his best not to feel too sorry for himself, but it was hard. As it was he'd groused silently the entire time at the office, imagining what kinds of fun they were having while he slaved away over a stupid pile of work.
To take his mind off wallowing, he nodded towards the fireplace. "First fire of the season," he commented.
"Well," her gaze settled on the fire, her low tone seeping into the intimacy set by the dancing flames, "It's the perfect evening for cuddling in front of a fire, isn't it?" She threw him a sidelong glance, grinning. "The kids had a great time of it. You should have seen Leila's look of wonder."
"I'm guessing they had a great time of the s'mores, too," he said with a playful indulgence, knowing that making s'mores to inaugurate the first fire of the season was an annual event for her. She'd invested it with a fanfare that put Groundhog Day to shame.
"That goes without saying." She beamed at him, and at the sight of it he felt the last wisps of regret over a wasted Saturday fade. He was home now; nothing else much mattered.
"Besides," she continued, "The kids and I deserved a reward, after all. We raked the yard twice—"
"Twice?" He interrupted, eyebrow raised in question. He shifted on the couch so that he was facing her.
"Well," she began, her melodic voice in cadence with the crackling fire, "First we raked all the leaves into this massive pile so we could take turns jumping in—"
"You jumped into a pile of leaves?" The idea of her jumping into a heap of dead leaves for all their neighbours to see struck him as amusing, though not too surprising. When Matt had first entered their lives, it had surprised him no end how playful and unaffected Mac was when she interacted with him. Now whenever she looked at any of their kids, there was an almost childlike exuberance to her, a genuine enjoyment that shone in her eyes.
"Of course I did." The look she gave him indicated just how silly she thought his question was. "Someone had to hold Leila so she could have her turn. The kid can barely crawl in a straight line, let alone jump," she reasoned.
"Of course." He agreed readily. If that was her excuse ... Stupid work; he'd missed all the fun. He sighed. She must have noticed his despondency, because she squeezed his hand.
"We were planning on doing the backyard tomorrow. The kids and I figured there are enough leaves back there to accommodate your larger frame."
He grinned, knowing he should probably be embarrassed at being so transparent, but too happy that they remembered him amidst their fun to worry about it. "Who're you calling 'large', Marine?"
"In Katie's words, and I quote," she cleared her throat dramatically. "'Daddy's humungous'."
"She did not say that." He eyed her, unable to tell if she was pulling his leg or not.
Mac pursed her lips to keep from laughing, and nodded merrily.
"Well," he reasoned, "She's a kid. And I'm tall. It stands to reason."
"Tall, is it?" she teased. He watched as she put in a token effort to suppress her laughter before giving in.
He shook his head at how much amusement she seemed to be extracting from this. "As I recall, you once called me Stick Boy."
"How many years ago was that?"
He pointed a finger at her. "Not enough for the statute of limitations to have expired."
"If you say so." She said, smiling widely.
He decided to change the subject before she could begin ragging him about mid-life crises and old age, something she'd tended to do on a regular basis ever since he'd gone to the health store three months ago and stocked up on multi-vitamins for the two of them, and then drafted a strict exercise regimen for them to follow. He was just trying to make sure they both stayed healthy. He was not having a mid-life crisis, for god's sake. When he did actually have a mid-life crisis – although he still had years and years to go before any such thing was even a remote possibility – and bought his very own tomcat, then she'd know what a mid-life crisis was. But for now, he'd change the subject.
"What are you reading?" He peeked at the open pages before she could tuck the book away, and what he saw gave him pause. All levity dissipated. "Jurassic Park? Alright: what's wrong."
"What?" She said defensively, averting her gaze. Her grin faded into a look of discomfort. "Nothing's wrong." She pulled her hand from his.
He realized that she was hiding something from him – she'd only gotten worse at lying to him over the years. It only served to worry him more that she'd pulled her hand away. They'd worked hard at their relationship, and after seven years of marriage and all the trials and tribulations and pleasures they'd been through together, they'd broken a lot of their old patterns of emotional retreat. But old habits really did die hard, he supposed. He remembered her subdued mood when he'd first entered the room, and if she was seeking physical distance from him...
"Try again, Counsellor."
"Harm…" She warned.
"Mac." He began with exaggerated patience. "You read Clancy when you're bored, George when you're angry, Walters when you're depressed, Ludlum when you're at loose ends, Grisham when you're puzzling over a case ... but you only read Crichton when you want to escape." He softened his tone, but didn't make a move to reach for her. Truth was she only read Jurassic Park when she wanted to escape childhood memories. "What's wrong, Sweetheart?"
"Harm. It's nothing. I promise." She insisted.
"Mac."
"Harm." Her tone was mildly pleading. "Can we not talk about this."
He turned to face forward on the couch and sat in silence, staring at the flames as they licked the logs piled in the fireplace. He counted to five.
"How about now." He ventured a sidelong glance.
"Harm."
"Mac."
She huffed. "You're infuriating, you know that."
"I know." He replied, relieved that she was giving in. He'd been ready to dig his heels in.
She took a deep breath as she absently fingered the pages of her book. Her gaze was riveted on the steady blaze in the hearth, but he could see that her thoughts were miles away.
"I got a letter from Uncle Matt today." She began in a muted tone.
He frowned, waiting for her to continue. That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary; she corresponded regularly with him, had sent him pictures of their wedding, of the kids.
"He said he received a letter two weeks ago from my ... my mother." He turned his head fully towards her. It occurred to Harm how awkward those two simple words, strung together, sounded coming from her. He could also hear how awkward she felt at saying them.
Her low, measured words threaded themselves through the crackle of burning wood, through the soft sounds of their breathing and the silence that had settled, thick and muffled, over them. He watched the light from the flames play across her features. "I'd told her – my mother that is – that Uncle Matt was in Leavenworth when I saw her last. When my dad died."
He remembered watching her as she'd sat across from him in the Admiral's office that day: her skin and hair aglow in the intimate light of a fading sun, her eyes glimmering with a quiet introspection he'd never noticed in her before. It made him wonder if it was his eyes, with their second lease on life that made her seem so ... different. She had been telling him how she'd buried her father and met her mother, and he'd thought there was an ethereal air about her. It had made her seem impossibly out of his reach, even as she was separated from him only by an expanse of mahogany, of paperwork and case files, pens and naval letterheads. He'd said the first thing that came to mind that now-distant dusk, to try and lessen the impossible distance. And he'd ended up dragging her car shopping with him. The memory had him smiling.
"How many years ago was that, Harm?" Her hushed words pulled him back to the present, to the steady blaze of firelight and away from that long ago sunset. "She didn't even keep in touch with her own brother, even knowing he was in Leavenworth. When I told her, she didn't really seem to care, you know? It was like I was telling her the weather forecast. It made me wonder..." She let the incomplete thought float in the air. Her gaze hadn't shifted from the fire, nor had her thoughts drifted any closer to him.
"There was no return address on the letter, but it was postmarked from Wisconsin."
"What did the letter say." He asked carefully, wondering what a woman could possibly have to say to her brother after over two decades of silence, without feeling the need to include a return address.
The question started Mac out of her thoughts. She blinked once and then turned to look at him as though she'd forgotten he was even there. Her gaze turned pensive as it rested on him.
"Uncle Matt transcribed the letter and mailed it along with his." She replied levelly. He searched her eyes for some emotional response, but could find none.
"And?" An image of pulling teeth came to mind. He suppressed it.
She shrugged indifferently, her gaze returning to the fire.
"Where is the letter, Sweetheart?" He couldn't begin to figure out what she was thinking, feeling. He wondered how she would react if he offered to sit beside her while she read it, or hold her, or worse still, read the letter to her.
She lifted her chin in a slight motion, indicating the fire.
He tried to school his features into an expression of understanding, when all he felt was shock.
"You burned it?" He could not keep the disbelief from his tone.
She nodded.
"You didn't read it?" He really couldn't interpret the expression on her face. She could still be inscrutable – although he had taught himself a few tricks over the years. Well, one trick, really: namely, throwing out feelers in the dark until he hit something solid. He fought the mild undercurrent of annoyance and frustration he always felt when he thought she was pushing him away, keeping him at arm's length.
She shook her head in reply to his question.
"Why?" He asked, genuinely curious.
"She didn't intend for me to read it, did she?" She replied bluntly.
His annoyance and frustration evaporated when he recognized the tension that stretched her voice thin, flat. There was only one answer to her question, and neither of them was going to say it out loud.
"Uncle Matt received the letter two weeks ago." She continued, her tone faltered, wavered as she made her admission. He watched as she shut the book and smoothed her hand over the cover in an unconscious gesture. "I checked our mailbox again after reading his letter, just to make sure. Even though I knew it was empty."
"Mac." There were times when he couldn't comprehend the strength of his feelings for her, couldn't explain how it was that sometimes he could feel her happiness glide over his skin or equally, at times like this, feel her pain thud against the walls of his heart. It amazed him, really, that once upon a time he'd shied away from this, and now he felt it not only with her but with each of their children. And he prided himself on this connection he had with his family.
"Don't say you're sorry." She warned, her tone brooking no room for argument. "It just ... It threw me off."
"Hence Jurassic Park?" He asked, knowing she wouldn't accept his sympathy. Instead, he took her hand and tugged her towards him. She discarded her book carelessly as she shifted sides, not facing him, not letting go of his hand. In an ease born of habit, she curled into him instead of the corner of the couch.
"Hence Jurassic Park." She murmured as she settled her head on his lap.
He waited in silence for a few moments, entwining their fingers as their hands settled on his knee, running his free hand through her hair.
"What are you feeling?" He murmured softly, not wanting to break the quiet warmth of the moment.
He felt her inhale slowly and hold her breath, but she said nothing.
"It's okay, Mac." He ran his finger along her ear, watching her as she stared at the flames.
She exhaled heavily. "Disappointed. Disappointed that I ever found out about the letter. Disappointed that she didn't send me one. Disappointed in myself for wishing that she had sent me one."
"It's normal to feel that."
"I know." She sighed. "This never goes away..."
"But..." He prodded.
"Doesn't mean I have to like it." She said simply.
"No, it doesn't." He confirmed, relieved that she was at least talking to him about this.
They sat silently, each drifting idly in their thoughts. He watched, transfixed, as the wood popped and red hot sparks jetted outwards before silently drifting down to rest on their bed of embers and ash. There was something about watching the flames hotly lick the logs they were steadily feeding on, and feeling the heat of the blaze on his face and arms that mesmerized him, lulled him. Watching the flames was soothing, even as it was riveting. It was strange, he thought. Fire was associated with destruction and uncontrollable hunger as much as it was with love and cleansing rebirth. Risky, yet necessary; a forbidden gift from a wily god. He looked down at Mac, where she rested easily with her head on his lap, holding his hand. He trailed his fingers through her hair, watching her as she watched the flames flicker and roar in the hearth.
"Hey," She turned her head suddenly to face him. "Let's make some s'mores." She followed her request with a soft, eager smile and, just like that, the sombre fog dispersed from around them. He wondered at her resiliency.
"Are you sure you want to feed me that stuff? I thought I was humungous." He teased, following her push towards levity.
"Katie's words, not mine." She replied, her lip curling slightly. "And Matt defended you honourably." The sparkle in her eyes made him doubt that his son's defence had been all that noble.
"Did he now." He played along.
"Oh, yes." She nodded, turning on his lap so she could face him fully. "He explained to Katie that dinosaurs are humungous. Daddy is just huge."
He shook his head wryly. "You do know how to boost a guy's ego."
"Hey," she broke out into a mischievous smile and rubbed his chest in a placating gesture. "If I think you're huge, you should be flattered."
He laughed and ruffled her hair playfully.
"But first," she told him with mock sternness, swatting his hand away so she could smooth over the strands of hair he'd unsettled. "S'mores."
"Of course." He said gallantly. For good measure, he waited until she'd fixed her hair before tousling it again. He grinned at the reproving frown the move earned him. "I'll just go change out of uniform."
He made to get up, but was surprised to feel her hand tighten around his, and looked down questioningly at her.
"I'll come with." She said casually, lifting her head off his lap without letting go of his hand. So much for her being okay, he realized. For the umpteenth time since he met her, he cursed her parents for leaving scars she still carried. He was grateful, though, that he'd paid enough attention over the years to know how to pull her out of these periodic funks, even when she didn't vocalize the need to be pulled out.
"You want a floorshow?" He teased, putting his cockiest grin in place. He stood up and pulled her with him.
"Oh, you make it sound so romantic." She rolled her eyes, and heaved a long-suffering sigh.
His smile only widened. "You want an invitation, Baby." He replied smoothly, not missing a beat. He knew she hated it when he called her that, which was why he did it whenever the opportunity presented itself.
She scoffed with playful indignation. "I don't need an invitation. That ring on your finger means I have an all-access, backstage pass."
He laughed, shaking his head even as he tightened his hand around hers. "I feel so used."
"No you don't, Sailor." She squeezed his hand meaningfully in return, and smiled up at him. He could see the gratitude she couldn't put into words, and the love she could. It warmed him through to his bones.
He tugged her hand abruptly, pulling her into him. He bent down slightly, wrapped one arm around her middle and the other around her legs, and then hoisted her over his shoulder. In a swift movement – and before she could protest – he used his foot to shut the screen on the fireplace, and then set out for the stairs, towards their bedroom. She squealed in surprise.
"Harm! What are … put me down!" She tapped her fists against his back, though not nearly hard enough for him to take her seriously.
He grinned at her protest, knowing that she also hated it when he carried her like this. Which was why he also did it whenever the opportunity presented itself.
"No way, Wife." His tone oozed smugness "That ring works both ways."
"Harm!" She whispered forcefully – unable to be any louder without waking the kids.
He kept grinning as he entered their bedroom. Then he threw her onto the bed as best he could with his aging body – not that he'd ever admit it – and back.
He stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips and legs apart, enjoying the view of her trying to right herself.
She sat up and blew her hair out of her eyes, arms crossed, glaring at him.
He grinned – he absolutely loved it when she wore that glowering scowl –, then dove onto the bed.
"Harm!" She exclaimed, laughing, as she put her hands up defensively.
He landed on top of her, pushing her onto the mattress with the weight of his body, thoroughly enjoying her expression of shock. Their laughter ended abruptly when, just as his full weight landed on the bed, a deafening crack resounded and the bed collapsed beneath them. He lost his hold and ended up sprawled on top of her, his head in the valley of her breasts. Slowly, terrified at what he'd see on Mac's face and just a bit reluctant to leave one of his favourite places, he lifted his head to look at her.
He found her gaping her surprise, eyes wide with shock. "You broke our bed." She stated the obvious, her whispered words laced with incredulity.
He wondered if that ring on his finger also got him a get out of jail free card. He supposed he ought to find out.
"Uh…" He began lamely.
She looked at him for a moment, then threw her head back and burst into a fit of laughter. "You broke our bed!" She repeated, now giggling as she peeked down at him. "I guess I can't call you Stick Boy anymore! It's a good thing we skipped those s'mores!" Her laughter burst forth with renewed gusto.
He dropped his head, resting it in the welcoming nook between her breasts. She would never let him forget this, so he might as well enjoy what he could about the situation. He could feel her shake with laughter beneath him and decided to wait it out, diverting himself by taking advantage of his position and nuzzling lightly. After just a few moments, her laughter faded and he felt her chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh.
"Should I have read the letter?" She asked suddenly, her voice was low and uncertain, and held a sad resignation he didn't like hearing from her.
He pulled himself up on his forearms – the bed creaked forebodingly–, and framed her face with his hands. He stared intently at her. She rested her hands on his biceps and returned his stare, expectant yet a bit wary as she waited for his opinion.
He didn't know what to say, how to comfort her. The only experience he had concerning correspondence from long disappeared parents came in the form of his father's tapes, and those were among his most treasured possessions. But their situations were hardly comparable.
"I read the letter – Uncle Matt's – after putting the kids to bed." She searched his eyes. "Am I a bad daughter for not wanting to read the other one?" She frowned, shifted impatiently under him, huffed her irritation, and rolled her eyes. "God. I'm so messed up."
"Mac. No." He could see her fight her tears. "Did Uncle Matt tell you why he included your mom's letter?" He asked carefully. It struck him as odd that her uncle would do anything that he didn't think Mac could handle, and Harm sometimes thought that Mac's uncle knew her better than he did.
She nodded quickly, biting her lower lip hard enough to make him wonder if she'd draw blood. "He hadn't heard from her since she left. I ... he didn't know I'd met her when my dad died. I didn't ... he thought I'd want to know that she, she was..."
"Doing okay?" Harm offered when she trailed off.
She looked up at him, expression desperate and pained. "Alive." She choked out, and he watched the tears silently trail down her temples.
As best he could given the collapsed bed frame, Harm rolled over so that Mac lay on top of him. He held her firmly in his embrace, bringing her head to rest in the crook of his neck.
"Let it out, Mac. It's okay." He whispered into her hair. It surprised him that she hadn't told her uncle about meeting her mother all those years ago ... It had been, what? Over ten years?
"She's not doing okay." Mac mumbled into his neck, her voice thick with grief.
He felt her hot tears on his skin as she began to cry in earnest. He tightened his embrace and listened as she spoke between quiet sobs.
"When I met her at the hospice, she ... she'd changed so much. I didn't even recognize her, at first. Not even her eyes ... and ... and she said she moved around a lot ... never stayed in the same place for very long..." Mac sniffed and wiped away her tears with her knuckles, her hands balled into tight fists.
"I just ... going back there was like being sucked right back into everything I'd worked so hard to get out of. It was like time just contracted and all I could feel was that claustrophobic anxiety and..." He heard the tears fade from her voice, replaced by an edgy exasperation. "God, I can't even describe it, Harm. It's just easier to ignore it."
She took a deep breath and he could literally feel her collect her emotions, and wrap them into a neat, tight package. It never failed to both amaze and irritate him that she could stow it all away so quickly. He couldn't, which was why he tried to avoid unwrapping the tight, neat package in the first place.
She shifted slightly until she lay completely on top of him, then crossed her arms over his chest and propped her chin on her knuckles.
"You know what the worst part is?" She was staring at some point over his shoulder.
"What?" He watched her carefully, wishing not for the first time that he could do more than just offer an attentive ear and a comforting touch.
"I didn't even know how to feel about it. I mean, she seemed so ... I don't know." He watched her brow knit into a frown as she groped for a word. Finally she settled on an angry, annoyed huff. She raised her voice slightly as she spoke, her words clipped. "Weak. Pathetic. Everything I fought so hard not to be. Everything the Marines drilled out of me. I looked at her sitting on that bench like my dad meant nothing and I felt ... impatient, irritated with her."
She suddenly deflated, defeat making her words hollow. "And then on the plane back to DC I hated myself for my reaction. She told me she didn't take me with her because she knew my dad wouldn't hurt me. How could she know? I thought, when she told me, that it was an excuse. But then, sitting on that plane..." She paused, sounded so distant, so far away from him. He gently trailed his fingers through her hair, listening. He could feel her chest rise and fall with every breath. "The Truman Show was the in-flight movie. And I remember watching Jim Carrey's boat hit that wall, and thinking that's it: that's life. Not the stuff outside the studio, but the wall he hit. That was it. We pretend we have a world of choice, but it's the walls around us that make us. And we can't even see them."
He watched her as she toyed absently with the collar of his shirt, her eyes still fixed on a point above his shoulder. He wondered how much she had left in her. She'd never said so much about that time in her life to him in one sitting, had never volunteered so much. And never without making sure she wasn't touching him, never without that confrontational, steely glint in her eye, as though challenging him to say anything, challenging herself to feel anything. It was a side of her he'd never really known how to handle, mainly because he couldn't see her behind that facade, could only see the shield. He wondered if perhaps Uncle Matt did know her better than either of them credited him for. God knows, he owed more to the man than he could ever hope to repay.
"How could she not be messed up after years of feeling worthless at the hands of her husband?" She continued unaware of his thoughts, distant and reflective. "And my dad ... he tried to cook dinner for me, you know, after mom left. He checked my homework. Tried to be a parent, I guess. All this if he wasn't so drunk he couldn't even make it up the stairs to his bedroom." Her fingers slipped under his collar and absently rubbed back and forth in quick, short motions over his collarbone, her eyes focused on the same invisible scene playing out above his shoulder. "He almost burned the kitchen down one evening, trying to cook dinner after an afternoon of heavy drinking. I was helping him douse the flames when he slipped on a patch of water. He fell down and passed out. At first I thought he'd hit his head, but it was probably all the binge drinking catching up to his body."
He was surprised by how ... subdued her tone was, almost like she was thinking out loud. And partly relieved. If she was able to talk about it, instead of ignoring it, maybe it wouldn't hold her hostage as much. He hoped so. There were still times when the steely-eyed, confrontational side of her appeared, protective and defensive. Over the years, though, he thought that part of her had faded, lost its once looming presence. He liked to think that he and their kids had a lot to do with it, and he considered it one of his greatest accomplishments. Not many could say they'd been able to convince Sarah MacKenzie to slowly peel away her armour. Even if it did take him seven years of marriage and over six of friendship before that. Even if it was still an ongoing process.
"I always thought to myself," She continued in that same pensive tone, "After mom left, that one day he'd just lose it and start beating me. I was just waiting for it, either walking on eggshells or drinking away that ... that fear. And after he'd passed out, after I'd put out the flames, I looked at the kitchen with the charred walls and counters and thought 'This is it. He's going to hit me for this.' And I packed my stuff and left. I was 17—" She stopped suddenly, her eyes shifted from the spot above his shoulder to his face. She stared at him, startled, wearing a curious expression of awe and surprise.
"What is it?" He asked, wondering what had caused the interruption.
"I don't think I've ever said so much about it before. To anyone." She looked surprised, disbelieving, and he fought the grin that threatened. It wasn't often she looked at him like this, like she'd just discovered one of life's hidden treasures.
She frowned, her lips pursed as she regarded him, her expression slowly transforming into an amusing mix of suspicion and doubt. "I actually, uh, feel okay."
He couldn't help himself, and his laughter escaped. "You feel okay?"
Her frown deepened as she looked at him, and he knew she was wondering what he found so funny.
He tamed his laugh into a smile; though he couldn't help but feel an overpowering pride in her and – he would admit – in him. But he still felt a need to make sure she really was okay. "How do feel about burning the letter?"
Her frown turned thoughtful. She picked at an invisible piece of lint on his shirt. "You know, sometimes I feel like I have to think of her because I have half of her – genetically – in me. Like a biological imperative ... Does that make sense?"
He nodded.
"What is it about blood that does that? If she were anyone else..." She trailed off absently, drifting once again into her thoughts.
"I know." He thought back to the family they'd carved out at JAG years ago, before marriage and transfers and the course of life meant they no longer all worked in the same office. Yet they still kept in touch with the Roberts, and the Turners, with Coates and the Admiral. They were friends, godparents, family. Celebrated Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, birthdays, christenings, and whatever else they could, when they could, together...
"Blood and genetics don't make family, Mac."
She nodded solemnly, her eyes dark and serious as she put a hand over his heart. And yet she seemed so much lighter. Another layer peeled away, discarded. "You're my family."
"And you're mine." He tightened his arms around her, and leaned up to press a kiss to her hairline even as happiness burst in his chest, fluttering and sparkling and settling over his heart with a sigh.
She watched him for a moment before placing a kiss above his heart, and then rested her head on his chest, her ear where her lips had been a moment ago.
He lay on the broken bed with her for long moments, enjoying the silence and the feel of being wrapped in each other, legs tangled together...
"Harm?" Her soft voice broke through the quiet. He detected the teasing lilt.
"Hmm?"
"We're going to have to sleep on the fold-out couch in the living room tonight."
He chuckled, and then decided this may not turn out too badly after all. "The fire's probably still going strong...It could be quite romantic." He raised an eyebrow suggestively even though she couldn't see, hoping a broken bed wouldn't impede other activities.
She pulled up to look at him, her eyes shining with unabashed eagerness. "We could have s'mores in bed!"
He burst into laughter. Then an image of Mac, dripping chocolate and gooey marshmallows came to mind. This may not turn out too badly after all. "Great idea, Mac. You can be the graham cracker."
She laughed in delight, pulling herself up until her face was just above his. She rubbed her nose against his, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You want to be the Marshmallow Man, Gigantor?"
"That's Humungousor, to you." He corrected. Then he raised an eyebrow and gave her his most rakish grin. "And, I can be whatever you want me to be, Baby."
She returned his grin before placing a smacking kiss on his lips, then used her hands to push off of him and clamber off the bed. Once standing, she offered him a helping hand.
"You change, I'll get the spare linens for the couch." She stated.
He took her proffered hand and heaved himself off the bed. He wondered if the frame was fixable, or if they'd have to buy a whole new bed. He hated furniture shopping. Maybe he could convince Mac to go on her own. Although knowing how much she disliked furniture shopping, and the fact that technically speaking he was the reason the bed broke – and by technically, he meant it'd be nothing short of stupid for him to even suggest to Mac that she was in anyway responsible, 10 percent more body fat or not...
A slight tug on his hand pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked down to see Mac let go of his hand and wrap her arms around him in a tight embrace. As he returned the gesture, she reached up to kiss him. He sighed into her mouth, enjoying the feel and taste of her. She may not have been able to put her gratitude into words, but he had no doubts. Not when she kissed him like this, or looked at him the way she did, or touched him the way she did, or let him see the hidden parts of her...
She pulled back and patted his chest before moving out of his embrace, toward the door.
"Don't keep me waiting too long, Marshmallow Man," She threw over her shoulder as she exited the room. He watched her retreating form, a pleasantly satisfied smile tugging at his lips. That time of their lives – of waiting for things to happen, of hoping without expecting, of silent distance – had long passed them by, fading like that now distant sunset.
A gift, indeed.
--
The End.