Squatter
Disclaimer[Insert generic disavowal of ownership here
A/N: I'll start by saying that I really like the stories premised on H&M having to share the same space for a while; some because they're a guilty pleasure and others because they're a pleasure to read. Then I thought, hey, I want to get on that bandwagon. So, in the words of the venerable Green Day, I'm hitchin' a ride.
I set this before the Four Percent Solution. So: before Mac went to see McCool for the sleeping pills and had that mammoth session, before Mac found Harm and Alicia having dinner; after Mattie left...As a result of the time period, this is one heck of an angsty and sometimes sad piece. It probably ended up being a lot heavier than I had initially intended, but you know how it is: sometimes these things get away from you. I hope none of it is construed as gratuitous angst.
Does it have a happy shipper ending, you ask? I'm offended the thought even crossed your mind. Shame on you. I'll bring the holy water, you find a priest.
I haven't seen all the episodes, so I don't know if we do find out why exactly Harm has the eating habits he does. I'm going to assume it's because he's a proponent of healthy eating. So, when he has the choice, minimal red meat intake, no factory-farmed stuff and definitely nothing processed. Why did I take the space in an author's note to highlight, in detail, this rather inconsequential point? I don't really know. It comes up in a conversation between H&M in this story. Chalk it up to characterization.
And one really bad word in this first part.
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Squatter – Part 1
The Offer Still Stands
JAG HQ
Thursday
1300 Local
Mac crossed the bullpen, heading towards Harm's office to pick up a file. There was a time when going to his office used to be the highlight of her day. A little casual conversation, a little teasing; it invariably netted her a smile. These days, though ...well, who knew anymore. She sure has hell didn't.
Mac sighed. That, she thought, was a lie. If she were to be honest, these days going to his office made her feel nervous and unsettled. Seeing him made her palms sweat and her stomach churn.
It took her right back to fourth grade with Mrs. Fennimore, when she'd walked into class on her birthday and tried to find a way to explain why she didn't have the cupcakes she was expected to bring and share to celebrate the occasion. All the other kids brought cupcakes on their birthdays; all the other kids were expecting her to bring cupcakes on hers. How was she supposed to explain that her father had broken her mother's fingers, making baking impossible? Mac had tried her hand at making them herself, and she'd failed. So she'd entered the classroom knowing what was expected of her, and knowing she couldn't deliver despite her best attempts. Her best attempts had only left her with an ugly, very carefully hidden bruise on her collarbone, and a deep-seated sense of guilt. No cupcakes, no way to explain.
She'd hated the fourth grade.
"Are you sure?"
His voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She'd made it to Harm's doorway on autopilot. Automarine, Harm would say.
He had his back to her, the phone pressed to his ear. He sounded tired and resigned; it didn't suit him.
"Yeah. No, you're right, that makes more sense. How long will it take?"
She had almost convinced herself to just sneak in, pick up the file from off his desk and sneak away, when he turned in his chair and caught her eye. His demeanour brightened slightly, or maybe she imagined it, and he waved her in. She wiped her palms against her skirt, thankful that she'd skipped breakfast.
"Alright," he continued speaking on the phone, but his eyes were on her as she entered his office.
She settled on standing in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back, feeling a little silly. Hopefully, he'd get the message and just hand her the file without trying to settle in for a chat.
"Well, you have the key. No, I won't be staying there, not without heat and water." He gestured for her to take a seat. Mac fought her impatience. She did not want to sit and shoot the breeze. However, she knew that if she didn't sit, he'd hound her with the twenty questions. So she sat down. But she still scanned his desk for her file, hoping for a quick, painless escape.
"Monday?!" He almost yelled. She looked up at him, startled by the outburst. "That's four days!"
He glared at the far wall. She decided that glaring suited him much better than sounding tired and resigned.
"Fine. Yeah. Sorry about that. Four days, though ... Yeah, I know. Okay. Monday, 1400. What? Oh, right; that's 2PM."
Harm hung up forcefully and expelled an angry breath. "Dammit."
"You okay?" He looked so put out that she couldn't help but voice her concern.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Dammit. My apartment's the one with the problem." He kept glaring at his phone, as though willing it to burst into flame.
"The pipes burst," he continued, still staring at his phone. "Must've been the unexpected cold spell we've been having the last couple of days. It's all a mess. Heating system was collateral damage. I have to find a place to stay for the next few days." He paused and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "When it rains, it really pours."
He said the last part so softly, she thought he may not have intended it for her ears. Hearing him sound so sad tugged at something in her heart.
"You could always stay at my place." The words left her mouth without her permission, and hung in the air awkwardly. Over a year ago, the offer would have been perfectly normal. Expected, even.
His head snapped up and he stared at her. Surprise flitted across his face, but was quickly replaced by confusion. He watched her for one long moment. "Are you saying that for form's sake, or are you really offering?"
She returned his studious stare, not offended by the question. Truthfully, it had been a knee-jerk reaction, an instinctive response to his distress. She knew that if she had been getting more sleep, she would have said something very different. Something along the lines of 'the Best Western off exit 177 has good rates – you can use my AAA card to get a discount'. But the more she thought about it, well, Harm would have made the same offer if their places were reversed. More importantly, she really did want to help him.
She could see the change in him. She knew what he wanted, could see it in his eyes. He'd confirmed it at the admiral's Dining Out. She also knew she couldn't give it to him. Paraguay had taken away some vital part of her. Those months away from him, near Clay had darkened another part. Sadiq had destroyed yet another. And infertility had killed whatever was left. She couldn't meet his expectations. But whenever he looked at her, she felt guilty. This was the fourth grade all over again. So if offering him the fold-out couch for a few days would allay some of that guilt, she would more than gladly do it.
"I am sincerely offering you all the comforts of a lumpy fold-out couch and a fridge full of take-out." She put her hand over her heart in a gesture of exaggerated sincerity.
"You make it sound so inviting." He was grinning at her, his fingers nimbly twirling a pen.
She remembered a starry night in the desert before promptly dismissing the thought.
"At least more inviting than a frozen apartment without running water." Pointing out the obvious was a safer course than dwelling on what was lost.
"I'll give you that, Mac." He ceased twirling his pen. His expression turned sober, "Are you sure this is okay with you? Because I can book a room somewhere."
"I'm positive, Harm. I wouldn't have offered otherwise." A blatant lie, she knew. But guilt was a powerful master and she needed to do something for him.
He didn't look convinced – she could see it in his raised eyebrow, in the set of his shoulders, in the way he leaned back into his chair. She stared right back at him, unblinking. It occurred to her that maybe he was debating over whether or not he would feel comfortable staying at her apartment. He had never really spent much time there, after all. They had usually gotten together at his place.
"Thanks, Mac," he finally relented, pulling her from her thoughts. "You have a new roommate," he straightened in his chair and although neither had moved from their positions, he suddenly seemed a lot closer to her.
She self-consciously shrugged off his thanks, and focused on her reason for coming into his office in the first place. "I think Jen handed you the Carver file by accident."
"Right." He nodded. "I was wondering about that. I returned it to her inbox. Sorry about the wasted trip."
"Don't worry about it. I was beginning to grow roots at my desk anyways." She rose from her seat. "I don't know how late I'll be here, but I have a spare key in my desk. Let me get it for you."
"I think I still have your spare key, from ..." she could see him struggle to find a word that wouldn't make this situation any more awkward. "From before."
"I, ah, changed the locks recently." She looked away for a moment, stared at her shoes to keep him from reading her thoughts on her face. They had hardly been in a place where she would have told him that she'd changed her locks after Sadiq had broken into her apartment, let alone give him a new spare key. She didn't want to give him an explanation, since it would make her seem weak – she'd changed her locks after Sadiq had died ... after she had killed Sadiq ... She turned her gaze back to him, and the look of hurt in his eyes suddenly made the explanation tumble out of its own will.
"Sadiq." She looked away again uncomfortably, but didn't miss seeing the look of anger and worry slide into place. It was his standard protective expression. She sighed. Time to end this conversation.
"You don't need me to tell you to make yourself at home." She threw him a pointed look, and headed to her office to retrieve the key.
The moment she set foot in the bullpen, she was relieved to be out of his office. She didn't know how she felt about him staying at her apartment until Monday, and being in the same room as him wasn't helping her come to a decision.
But how bad could it be, right? They had been good friends, once. As far as she was concerned, she would still travel across the world to watch his six, harbour him if were a fugitive, and try to save him from his impetuous obsessions. Nothing either of them could do would change that. Even though he no longer needed her to watch his six or harbour him or save him anymore, she still would. It was just as well. She couldn't give him what he wanted, what he expected.
Maybe it would be best if she looked for reasons not to be around her apartment so much over the next few days. Stay late at work tonight. Make plans with Harriet for Saturday. Or just make up plans for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Hell, he probably had plans. She hoped they didn't spend too much time together at her place, otherwise, the numerous elephants in the room were bound to trample them both long before Monday.
What the hell was she thinking in inviting Harm to stay at her place?
And why the hell had Harm accepted?
--
JAG HQ
Thursday
1910
Mac stared at her computer screen. She rubbed her eyes and leaned back into her chair. She could not spend all night here. She stared at the ceiling. That would be childish and she was an adult. Adults don't act childish. Not usually. She should go home. It was rude to just leave Harm there alone. It was inconsiderate. It was just plain bad manners. As it was, he'd left just over an hour and a half ago. One hour, forty-nine minutes, 38 seconds ... 39 seconds ... 40 seconds...
Suck it up, Mackenzie. You're going to go home. To your apartment. Where Harm currently is.
She wondered if it was possible for palms to sweat and stomachs to churn non-stop for four days straight.
No, that had to be physically impossible. Not possible. She would go home and everything would be fine. She'd keep things light. She'd be herself, act normal. Whatever the hell that meant.
Mac powered off her computer and began clearing her desk. Everything would be fine as long as they didn't fall into any deep, meaningful conversations. Maybe she could fake laryngitis.
What had she gotten herself into?
--
Mac's Apartment
Thursday
1956 Local
Mac opened her front door and stepped inside her apartment. Her palms were sweating and anxiety was doing odd things to her stomach. She was willing herself to calm down, when she realized that something in her apartment smelled really good. Was Harm cooking dinner? The realization made her feel guilty and inadequate. Why was he cooking dinner?
"Harm?" She toed off her shoes and began unbuttoning her jacket.
"In the kitchen," he called out.
"You don't need to cook," she began as she headed for the kitchen.
"What's that?" He turned to her when she entered.
"I said you don't need to cook." She leaned against the door jamb and watched him.
"You said to make myself at home, so I am." He adjusted the heat on the burner as he spoke, his attention only half on her. "And I looked inside your fridge, Mac. It's a wonder you're surviving."
She didn't tell him that she barely was, by the skin of her teeth. Instead, she swallowed her unease and remained silent.
"I stopped by the grocery store and stocked up," he continued, sautéing the contents of the pan he was holding.
"Thanks, Harm." She should've known he would do such a thing. She should've left work early and gone to the grocery store herself. Mac shook her head and headed to her bedroom to change. She needed to get away from him.
Just under nine minutes later, Mac emerged from her room. She'd cleansed and moisturized, hung up her uniform, and put on her loosest sweatpants and the thickest hooded sweatshirt she owned. She sighed deeply as she meandered her way to the kitchen. There was nothing quite like being buried under thick layers of cotton, warm and soft. She took a deep breath and straightened her spine right before entering the kitchen. Just act normal.
She stepped into the kitchen just as Harm was dishing the dinner onto two plates. Mac went about setting the table.
Normal Mac would make friendly conversation.
"What'd you make?" She asked as she put the utensils on the place settings.
"The Chef's Special tonight," Harm began with a flourish, "is Beef Stroganoff à la Rabb."
Normal Mac would've teased him about his eating habits.
"And what protein substitute does 'à la Rabb' stand for?" She poured them each a glass of water and waited to hear the dreaded 'soy' or 'tofu' or, worse still, 'the packet just says protein substitute'.
"No substitutes, tonight, Marine," he said proudly. "This is the real stuff."
Normal Mac would ... she had no idea how normal Mac would react to that revelation. This had never happened before.
Mac turned off the faucet and stared at Harm as he spooned stroganoff onto one plate.
"Real beef?"
"That's right." He replied absently, now busy spooning his real, bona fide beef stroganoff – or so he said – onto the second plate.
"You cooked real beef?"
He looked at her, amusement softening his features.
"Yes, Mac. Real beef. I, Chef Rabb, cooked real beef."
"You don't like red meat." She stated the obvious.
"I don't like that garbage you call red meat. Do you know how they raise those farm animals? How they treat them? What they feed them? And then you end up eating that? This is the good stuff, Mac. Free range. Grass fed."
Okay. Odd: he never cooked red meat, not that she remembered. He just went on and on about how horrible the stuff was when she ate it. But she could roll with the punches. Normal Mac could never help but to goad Harm when he mounted on his soapbox.
"Or so the butcher says," she pointed out.
"Mac!" He was truly appalled.
She fought a smile that threatened. This was important to him – which also meant that she'd heard this spiel many a time. Acting normal wasn't so hard after all, maybe this wasn't even completely an act. She picked up their glasses of water and headed to the kitchen table to set them down.
"I apologize, Harm. You're right." She teased. "The chemicals, drugs, hormones and god knows what they feed the animals. The exploitation of cheap labour. The destruction of the environment. The commodification of farm animals …" She paused and tried to smother her joking impertinence under a mask of sincerity. "Did I leave anything out?" She did her best to sound innocent.
"Now you're just making fun." He frowned at her, much as one would at a misbehaving two-year old, and came up beside her to set the plates on the table.
"Actually, I'm humouring you," she informed him with exaggerated patience. "Big difference."
"Mac."
"Harm, I'm just kidd—" She stopped as she felt his hand encircle her wrist. She looked down, confused, and then up at his face.
"What?" she whispered, worried by the sudden change in his demeanour.
His brow was slightly creased, his eyes dark with concern, deep with emotion. She knew this look. He was worried about her. Mac tried her best to look away, to free her wrist from his grasp, but his grip was firm. She gave up trying when he lightly ran his fingers, roughened by years of use, under her eyes. It was an infrequent, yet familiar feeling. Normal Mac would've leaned into his touch.
"Mac." He breathed her name, his tone heavy with an aching tenderness. She thought the weight of it would cause the two of them to sink right through the floor.
What had gotten into him? He was staring at the skin beneath her eyes with such intensity … It struck her then: she had been using concealer to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, caused by lack of sleep. He hadn't seen her without make up in a very long time.
Mac jerked her wrist from his grasp, she turned away from him and sat down, ramrod straight, at the table.
"Let's eat, Harm." Her tone brooked no room for argument. Normal Mac be damned. She couldn't do this.
"Mac-"
"The food's getting cold." She tried her best to sound conciliatory, and ate a forkful of noodles and stroganoff to emphasize her point.
"You've outdone yourself, Harm. This is fantastic." She tried to sound as sincere as possible, and looked up to see him reluctantly take a seat. Thank god. She relaxed, leaned back into her chair.
He didn't reply. Instead, they ate in silence. Occasionally, she stole a glance at him. He seemed to be taking out his frustration on the food on his plate. Guilt was getting louder and louder, clamouring to be heard. Her appetite fled, but she forced herself to eat. She would make this up to him. She just couldn't talk about it. She couldn't. But she would make up this ruined dinner to him. Just like normal Mac would have. Just like she needed to.
--
Mac's Apartment
Friday
0225 Local
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Her gaze roamed over the walls of her bedroom, over her dresser and closet doors. She would not admit it to anyone, but ever since she had found those diamonds in her room, evidence of Sadiq's intrusion, she would sometimes feel a nagging sense of discomfort in here. On more than a few nights, she would delay going to bed only to avoid the uncanny feeling that tickled her spine. Sadiq was dead. She had killed him. There was nothing to worry about.
The stalking episode from years ago with Coster probably didn't help her attempts to find comfort in her own bedroom, either. 'Even God forgives'. She wondered if Coster and Sadiq shared the same God. Damn psychotic men and their obsessive fixations. If Sadiq were alive, she'd kill him again. The thought further unsettled her. She pushed off the covers and climbed out of bed. A cup of cocoa would do the trick.
Mac padded towards the kitchen in her slippers and paused at the sound of light snoring. Harm. She'd forgotten he was here. Evidence, she supposed, of just how much that asshole terrorist had gotten to her. Hell would freeze over before she conceded defeat to him. She'd sleep one whole night, uninterrupted and in her own bed if it killed her. Mac sighed and turned on the kettle. Maybe she should invest in a new bedspread. Paint the walls a lighter colour. Rearrange the furniture. It was long overdue anyways.
She took out a mug, a sachet of instant cocoa, and rummaged through her cupboards for the marshmallows she knew she had. If there was one thing she hated more than having her entire life turned upside down by a jerk off, fanatical, violent, misogynistic fucker, it was not finding marshmallows when she bloody needed them for her goddamn hot chocolate.
"Are you alright?"
She jumped at the sound of the voice behind her, hitting her head on the top of the cupboard she was digging through.
"Ouch! Damnit." She rubbed her head and turned in her crouched position to look up at Harm. "You scared the shit out of me, Harm."
"Sorry, Mac," he put his hands up defensively, his patented look of concern firmly in place.
"I'm fine," she sighed, suddenly tired.
He didn't look convinced so she opted to change the subject, and returned to digging through the cupboard.
"Would you like a cup of cocoa, Harm?"
"Sure. Can I help?"
"No need." She triumphantly pulled out the bag of marshmallows. She knew she'd bought some the last time she'd gone grocery shopping. Hoorah for the small victories.
"You want marshmallows in yours?" She waved the bag slightly as she stood up, still rubbing her head.
"Here, let me take a look," he stepped closer to her and reached out to check the spot she was rubbing. She pivoted away from him, unnerved by how much room his presence seemed to take up in her kitchen and how little seemed to be left for her.
"Just a knock. I'm fine," she repeated, dismissing his concern. "Marshmallows or not, flyboy?"
"Marshmallows, definitely." He sounded amused and she threw him a curious glance. She realized that she had used the old nickname on him. Well, at least it had somewhat diffused the tension.
"So, Swiss Miss," he teased, "What time is it?"
She pulled a second mug out of the cupboard, and laughed lightly at his double meaning. He was seated at the kitchen table, looking comfortable. There was a playful gleam in his eye.
"0234. Sorry I woke you," she felt genuinely repentant. If she'd remembered that she had a houseguest, she would've stayed in her room. Or at least tried not to bang around the cupboards, searching for her first small victory of the day.
"Not a problem," he shrugged away her apology. "You couldn't sleep?"
"Nope." She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to boil.
"If you want to talk, the offer still stands." He sounded cautious.
"I know," she acknowledged his words but left it at that, hoping he would drop it. She wasn't going to talk about it, not with him, and she wouldn't give him any false hopes. She knew how unpleasant those were from being on the receiving end for far too many years.
The kettle whistled and she turned her attention to making the hot chocolate, thankful for the reprieve. Once done, she handed him his cocoa and sat down on the chair opposite him, warming her hands on the mug.
They sat in silence and sipped their drinks. She felt a whole lot calmer and wondered if she should credit the cocoa or his presence for that. Must be the cocoa, she decided, knowing it wasn't. Not wholly, anyways. The thought surprised her. She buried it, not wanting to consider the implications.
"Thanks for letting me crash here." His words were tentative and she guessed he was trying to fill the silence.
She simply nodded. The hum of the fridge and the sound of an occasional car already filled the silence enough for her.
He sighed and she glanced at him, chastising herself. She had invited him to stay; at the very least, she could make an effort to be hospitable.
"Is the couch comfortable enough? You can have the bed if you would prefer?" She offered; she wouldn't mind in the least if it meant getting out of that room and sleeping on sheets that smelled of him. His scent was comforting, it could be nothing else. After all, they had been good friends for so many years. It was only natural, she told herself.
"It's comfortable," he jumped in quickly. "I won't kick you out of your own bed."
"It's a sincere offer, Navy. Not for form's sake," she teased, amused by his eagerness.
Instead of a rejoinder, she was surprised to see a look of regret on his face. "What is it, Harm?"
"I didn't mean to imply, earlier at JAG, that you…that is…" He struggled with his words.
Her hands tightened on her mug. They'd been doing so well, her hands hadn't been sweating, her stomach was settled, and then he had to bring that up...
"Don't worry about it," she shook her head briskly, "we haven't been on the best of terms lately. I understand."
"That doesn't excuse it." He leaned forward in his seat, and zeroed in his attention on her. The room shrank, the walls closed in on her, she struggled to sit still. "Mac, you and I—"
"It's okay, Harm. I get it." She cut him off and hoped that he would drop the subject. Her knuckles turned white as she desperately clutched her mug. The beginnings of a headache took root just above her right temple. She did not want to have this conversation.
He sighed heavily and she knew that he was letting it slide. Relief overwhelmed her; she loosened her grip on the mug, relaxed, and stared at the table's surface until her heart stopped hammering in her ears. When she looked up, he was leaning back in his chair, eyeing her. But at least the room didn't seem quite as small anymore.
She stood up and took their mugs to the sink.
"I'll head back to bed." He said, but didn't move.
"Yeah. Sorry I woke you." She washed their mugs assiduously, waiting for him to leave the room. He didn't. "Would you like the bed, Harm? I really don't mind."
"Are you going to go back to sleep?" He ignored her question.
She sighed as she placed the mugs on the drying rack. With deliberate care, she dried her hands on the dishtowel before looking at him.
"Mac?"
"Yeah. Back to bed." She did her level best not to show her annoyance. He was just being himself.
He gave her hard stare before leaving the kitchen, looking less than pleased.
She padded her way back to her room, still unable to shake her restlessness.
"Goodnight, Harm." She looked at the rumpled shape sprawled on the sofa bed.
"Night, Mac," came his muffled reply.
She closed the door behind her and settled into bed for another few hours of staring at the ceiling.
One hour and 16 minutes later, she gave up on pretending she would sleep and quietly hopped out of bed. She turned on her bedside lamp, spread her laptop and case files over the bed, and set to work.
Two hours and two minutes later Mac rolled her shoulders to ease the kinks. Hunching over files was never good for posture. She was definitely way past being tired. In fact, she was positively wired. Mac jumped of the bed and dug out her running clothes. She bet herself she could get in five miles and make it back in time to shower before Harm woke up.