Disclaimer: Don't own'em
A/N: This takes place in season 9, at the tail end of Harm's stint with the CIA. Rather heavy, since that's pretty much unavoidable in this time period, especially if one is looking for resolution to the screwed up plotline that was shoved down our throats. I feel I should preface this story by saying that I don't believe in assigning blame to either of the characters for their behaviours – that's not the point of the story –, they are after all human and we all know how messy that can be. Personally, I welcomed a move towards more complex characterizations on the show, but was thoroughly disappointed that it was so dismally handled by TPTB. I only say this because readers do tend to take this stuff rather personally, and feel strongly about their views regarding characterization. As for me, I think the story line was an attempt by TPTB to follow the general trend at the time to make TV shows darker, more morally ambiguous and threatening in the post 9/11 environment. But this isn't a sociology essay nor does it aspire to be, so I'll end it there.
Don't worry, though: the story does aspire to be an H/M fic. All will be well.
Any inaccuracies – dates, times, names – are mine. Unless they're so egregious as to offend the spirit of the story, pretend they don't matter.
Lots of swearing in some parts, I'm just putting up a general disclaimer now.
And finally a shout out to lotilu for getting the wheels turning, and doc for being so helpful despite her busy schedule.
Fallout
Part 1
--
Langley, VA
Friday 0857
Local
Harm sat across from Kershaw in a CIA briefing room, wearing the veneer of indifference he'd worked so hard at perfecting. Knowing her penchant for punctuality, he'd be seeing her in – he glanced at the clock on the wall – less than three minutes. He hadn't seen her in four months, three weeks, six days, 18 hours and – he glanced at the clock – 48 minutes. Not that he was counting. Not that he even cared. He had heard from her – 16 messages on his answering machine. But his pride and his hurt would not allow him to return her calls. She was the one who said never. She was the one who was sharing a bed with asshole Webb. She was the one who dismissed seven years of history with one word. Why the hell should he call her back.
Less than one minute, now. She'd walk through those doors. He wondered what she looked like. Had she changed much? He'd gotten pretty good at reading her body language over the years, and part of him hoped that she would walk through that door unaccompanied by the efficient click of heels against tile or that look of squared-away self-assurance she wore so well. He hoped she'd walk in there with the slight slump of her shoulders that was a tell-tale sign of personal defeat no matter how well she tried to hide it. He hoped she'd walk into the room and he'd see nothing but regret and self-censure in her eyes. She'd cut him apart and left him to rot, alone. He shouldn't be the only one to suffer. Not that he was suffering. He didn't care.
The doorknob turned. The latch clicked. The door was pushed open. And in walked Sarah MacKenzie.
He sat a little straighter in his chair, without intending to. Their eyes caught. And held.
He kept his face an impassive mask as he searched hers. He could see no slump of her shoulders – in fact, she looked unrecognizably hardened, more angular than he'd seen her be in years – and he could not tell what was behind her eyes. Either he'd lost his ability to read her, or she'd worked on her poker face. And she looked more beautiful than he even remembered. He willed his heart not to constrict. Damnit. Damn her.
She broke eye contact with him, and nodded at Kershaw as she shut the door behind her. She took a seat on the only other chair in the room, next to Harm.
"Colonel." The agent seated across from them nodded at her.
"Sir." She acknowledged. She then turned to Harm, and gave a brisk nod. He saw something soften in her eyes, saw an unvoiced pain for a brief instant before she turned away. It left him feeling like he was suspended in mid-air, in mid-moment unable to move. Stuck. He forced his gaze away from her, and towards Kershaw. Damnit, he thought he was over the ridiculous push and pull that had always existed between them. Damnit.
"These files have the pertinent facts relating to your mission." Kershaw began, and Harm made himself pay attention to the briefing and not the woman sitting next to him.
"Word on the street is that Sadik Fahd is done licking his wounds and is putting out feelers in preparation for his next move. He was last confirmed seen meeting with this man, on the left. Bilaal Mansoor." Kershaw pointed at the projection screen behind him. A grainy black and white photo showed two men conversing across a small table, at an outdoor café.
"Mansoor is known to have links to a collection of non-profit agencies operating on U.S. soil that transfer funds to Islamic extremist groups in the Middle East under the guise of charitable donations. Not all these groups are violent or militant, but some are."
"We suspect that you, Colonel, have caught Sadik's interest. He's been looking into you, digging into your background."
Harm looked up sharply from his file, first at Kershaw then more cautiously at Mac. She didn't look too perturbed by the news. Instead, she nodded without looking up from the papers she was perusing. Her cavalier response caught Harm off guard. Did she already know? Had Webb told her? It was either that, or she really had developed one hell of a poker face. His uncertainty over her reaction irritated him, so he turned his attention back to the briefing.
"We expect him to somehow make an advance on you. We don't know if his plan is to hurt you – exact revenge for Paraguay – or if he's simply curious."
Harm kept his eyes fixed on the papers in front of him, studiously avoiding the heavy sense of dread that was sinking his heart into his toes.
"Intel on Fahd makes us suspect the latter, especially since he doesn't seem particularly interested in Webb, Rabb or Galindez. Fahd is known for being cruel, calculating and focused. If he is looking into the Colonel out of curiosity, that means he is distracted. It could work in our favour."
Harm shifted slightly in his chair. The feeling of dread multiplied tenfold. He could sense where this was going. He eyed Mac out of the corner of his eye. She seemed completely unaffected by the briefing, beyond the stubborn set of her jaw. What was wrong with her? This was unlike her. He turned his focus back on the file in front of him, angry that he even cared about her reaction, or lack thereof.
"One of our informants in Mansoor's inner circle confirms that Fahd is looking for funding for his next operation. He also confirms Fahd will be arriving in D.C. tomorrow to meet with potential funders, and will stay for three days. That meeting is only scheduled for his last day here." The agent turned all his attention on Mac. "We think he's coming early to check in on you, Colonel. We want to catch him when he does."
"You're using her as bait?" Harm stared at Kershaw, incredulous and angry, and barely able to conceal it.
Kershaw returned Harm's hard stare with an impassive one of his own, and ignored the question.
"We don't want to tip him off, so obvious surveillance isn't a possibility. Since you and the Colonel were partners for so many years, it isn't a stretch to make Fahd believe you spend a lot of time together." He turned to speak to Mac. "We'll have four agents within running distance of you at all times. This," he handed her a small remote, "is your safety button. Press that and within three minutes, someone will be there."
Harm bit the inside of his cheek to keep from exploding, and tried to put on his most reasonable tone. "Three minutes isn't much of a response time." He ground out the words.
"That's why you're there, Rabb." Kershaw replied easily. Harm wanted to strangle him.
"If you're not sure about this…" Mac faced Harm, addressing him softly. Harm turned an angry glare on her, and she trailed off. Those were the first words she'd spoken to him and she was doubting him? She held his irate glare, that stupid impregnable façade of hers back in place. What the hell was going on in that head of hers.
He turned back to Kershaw – to hell with her and her opinions. His tone was clipped. "What else do I need to know?"
Kershaw leaned back in his chair and eyed Harm thoughfully. "Everything is in those files." He nodded to the folder Harm had clenched between his fingers.
"Don't change your daily routine too much, Colonel." The agent turned to Mac. "We don't know when Fahd will be coming in. Rabb will be at your apartment tomorrow morning, 0600. Our agents will be in place starting at 2300 tonight."
Kershaw paused and straightened in his chair. He clasped his hands in front of him, on his desk.
"Colonel," He began in a gentler tone that even Harm, who was still seething at Mac's implication that he couldn't handle his job, noticed. "The Agency, and your country, thanks you for volunteering to come on board this mission."
Harm fought from rolling his eyes. They should do more than thank her, given the last time she'd agreed to get 'on board' a CIA mission. Although she did get her very own spook to personally 'board' out of that fiasco. And why the hell didn't they thank him? It cost him his bloody career. And they were making him do it all over again. Harm swallowed his anger at the thought.
"I know how the Agency works." Her words held a calm, measured hostility that surprised Harm. He turned to watch her as she spoke. She was looking Kershaw in the eye. "This operation would have gone ahead with or without my cooperation. I happen to like knowing when someone puts my life on the line."
She stood up without waiting for Kershaw to call the meeting to an end. "If that's all."
Kershaw nodded. Mac turned on her heel and left without sparing so much as a glance at Harm.
It was a great poker face, Harm thought as he watched her leave the room, but he could see some cracks in it. Good.
--
Mac's Apartment
Saturday
0558 Local
Harm stood outside her door. He hadn't been here in a long time. He thought he'd never have reason to come back. He shook his head; the best laid plans…
He waited until his watch said 0600 on the dot before knocking, then mentally counted the seconds until the door opened just so he had something to do other than think about her.
The door swung open to reveal Mac, dressed in jeans and a white shirt. He wasn't drinking in the sight of her in civvies. He wasn't revelling in the familiar view of her opening the door to him as she had done countless times in the past. He was on a job.
"Morning." He schooled his tone to disinterested calm.
"Harm." She sounded unsure of herself.
"So you haven't forgotten my name." He couldn't help but goad as he removed his coat.
She sighed. "Would you like some coffee? It's a fresh pot." She turned away and headed for the kitchen.
He wanted to say no, just to be difficult. Instead he followed her and peered through her kitchen windows to see if he could locate the agents who were supposedly within running distance.
"Here." She pushed a cup of coffee along the counter, towards him. "They're at opposite ends of the street." She nodded at the window. "Dark blue sedan up the street near the traffic light. And guy reading the paper on the deck of the yellow house six doors down. There's bread in the fridge and bagels in the cupboard if you want any."
He took a sip of the coffee, fully expecting it to be too strong, but was surprised to find it drinkable. He eyed her questioningly.
She caught his look and shrugged.
They stood in her kitchen, silently drinking coffee for what felt like a long and miserable lifetime to him.
"So, what were your plans for the day?" He did have a job to do, and he couldn't do it in silence.
"Grocery shopping. Laundry. Cleaning."
If they were at any other people in the same situation, or if they were at any other point in their relationship before Paraguay, he would've playfully accused her of using a highly trained CIA operative to do her housework.
Instead, he nodded. "We can head out whenever you're ready."
She put her mug in the sink with more force than necessary. He could see the tension in her bearing. Definitely cracks in her armour. Good.
"This is ridiculous." She mumbled as she rinsed her mug. "Sadik won't come after me in a grocery store."
He ignored her, put his mug down on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. "I'll wait by the door."
He was about to grab his coat, when he heard her come up behind him.
"Harm." Her tone was firm. "Wait."
It took all his effort to swallow his irritation. He turned around to face her, ready for battle. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at her, wearing his veneer of indifference. He waited.
"Harm …" She hesitated, looked away from him and studied the floor.
He watched as she regrouped. He squared his shoulders; she could not hurt him anymore.
"Harm. We have to spend this weekend together and we can't…" She trailed off and took a deep breath, then spread her arms out. "We should discuss … what happened."
He clenched his jaw. Now she wanted to talk? "I thought you said you were done with that."
"That's not …" She started defensively, before stopping herself. "Things were a mess down there. They still are. I just…" She trailed off again, and her uncertainty annoyed him. It made her seem vulnerable and he did not want to see that. The Mac by the taxi stand in Paraguay was heartless, he reminded himself.
"What?" He pushed, his voice harsh, not wanting to leave room for his anger to vent. It was what had kept him going after the cluster fuck that cost him his pride, his uniform and his heart. He was going to hold onto his anger in the absence of everything else.
"The CIA, Harm?" She looked up finally, questioning.
"What about it?" He tried to stand taller, intimidate her into silence. Not that it had ever worked before.
"Harm—"
He had to cut her off before she said his name again, before she spoke. He couldn't bear to hear it. Her voice had always calmed him, and he did not want to be stripped of his only defence against her.
"I thought you had a thing for spooks." He put in as much disdain as he could muster, tried not to let her read what he was trying to hide behind his eyes.
Shock and anger hardened her face. Good. He could handle her if she was angry. She opened her mouth to speak, and he waited for the resentment and accusations that would thicken his skin, inure him from her. But instead of saying anything, she closed her mouth, seemed to reconsider. She searched his face carefully.
"Let's go grocery shopping." She finally said, her tone hard.
He blocked her path. "No. I think you should finish this 'discussion'. That'd be a first for you, wouldn't it? Not avoiding. Not shutting it down. Oh, wait. That isn't you."
She crossed her arms in defiance and glared up at him.
"You want to blame me? Fine. It's all my fault. Do you feel better?"
He clenched his fist, pointed his finger at her. "Don't belittle me or what I did."
"I'm trying my best not to." She kept her eyes fixed on his, he could see how tenuous her control was, how close she was to ripping into him.
"Your 'best'?" He scoffed. "This is your best?"
"I'm not belittling you or what you did with my gratitude, so don't belittle me with your contempt." Her voice was cold, he could taste the fury in her tone.
"Gratitude? You think I want your gratitude?" Derision soaked his words. "I don't want your damn gratitude." If she thought he did all that for a 'thank you' ... How the hell could she not figure out what he really wanted? He opened his mouth to ask her, but she spoke first.
"And I don't want your damned contempt." She ground out.
They stared each other down, unmoving, for long minutes, anger crackling in the air between them.
"Out of my way." She glared at him, her words were steel. "I have to go grocery shopping."
He didn't budge.
She was shaking, her fists clenched by her side, eyes glinting harshly. He waited for her to say something else that would cut his heart into even smaller pieces, if not completely obliterate it. Then maybe he could have done with her.
Instead, her indignation deflated, the glint in her eyes retreated, and she just watched him for interminable seconds.
"You've changed." She said this in a way that made him think she didn't know how she felt about it.
He was about to throw a pointed barb about how he was supposed to be unchangeable, just to annoy her, to taunt her cold fury back out into plain view. But when he saw the look on her face, the words died on his tongue.
She was watching him, looking sad and thoughtful. It was a look she rarely directed at him, reserved it for when he'd done or said something to hurt her, something that had shaken her faith in him. For reasons he was trying so damn hard to fight, that look still cut him to the quick. He hated disappointing her. Maybe that was where this whole thing began. And where did it end? Would it ever goddamn end?
"This isn't you." She waved her hand aimlessly, her eyes searching for an answer in his. "Why?"
He clenched his jaw, and summoned back his anger to eclipse the hurt he didn't want her to see. "What else, Mac."
"A lot else, Harm." Her tone was as sad and thoughtful as her eyes. "You're a lawyer, too."
He fanned his anger into a steady roar. She had no right over him. None. She was the one who refused him. "Don't you dare pretend to tell me what to do, who I am."
"You love to fly … Is that why you took the job? Or did you just want to get away?" Her tone was level, but he thought he heard scorn beneath the stillness in her voice. But it was her words that angered him. She continued, "I always thought your principles rated higher than anything else. I guess I didn't equate flying into that formula. Or is it your ego." Her words were cutting, they pierced right through him. He was overtaken by a sudden, blinding anger.
"I would never compromise..." He threw out, then stopped, at a loss for words, appalled and incensed by the accusation. Furious that she would fling such a thing at him. So carelessly. She knew him better than that, for god's sakes. It infuriated him even more that this bothered him with such intensity, lodged itself in his brain and his gut. "I would never—"
"No," she shook her head slowly, cutting him off. She was watching him intently. Her words were measured, came out with a deliberate emphasis. "You never would."
He stopped short, not knowing how to respond. Anger popped and hissed under the surface of his skin. He could feel its slow burn in his pores. Damn her, was his first vicious thought. She'd always had a knack for tunnelling right into the centre of him and making him ask himself all the right questions. Damn her. He did not want to question that last five months of his life. He wanted to hurt her the way she had hurt him.
"Maybe I shouldn't have given up everything to travel 5,000 miles and damn near get myself killed." He spat the words out on a crest of anger, aiming for the centre of her.
She crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering, her demeanour unflinching. "Maybe you shouldn't have."
Her statement shook him with such force, he was sure the planet had been jolted off its axis and was juddering violently off-kilter, hurtling through the vast emptiness of space.
"You don't believe that." He said, his words gruff; his throat suddenly felt raw, his tongue like sandpaper. He wondered if his heart was still beating in his chest. He'd been wondering for the last five months.
She shook her head again, her face again wearing that sad, thoughtful look. Her impenetrable façade was gone, and all he could think was that there was so much hurt in her eyes. "I don't. But I think you do."
The implications behind her words paralysed him. He didn't … He would've … How could … He could not form a coherent thought. He needed to sit down. No. He scowled. Clenched his jaw. Tightened the set of his shoulders. Straightened his spine. He needed to get the hell away from her.
He turned around abruptly to face the door. How dare she say such a thing. After all he'd done. He should have quit the CIA before agreeing to this mission— He had one hand on the doorknob when he suddenly remembered why he was here in the first place. He stilled, took deep breaths to try and calm his hammering heart, to ease the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He couldn't even leave. After everything. He still couldn't even fucking leave.
He turned around and stalked to her couch. Angrily, he sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. He kept his glare fixed on her front door.
He heard her walk away from the living room and into the kitchen. He heard the telltale clinking of tableware and cutlery, of cupboards opening and closing. Moments later, he heard the whistling from the kettle. He kept staring at her door, studiously ignoring the cacophony of thoughts that were cluttering his brain. He heard her soft footsteps against the hardwood floor, approaching him. In his peripheral vision, he saw her set a mug of tea on the coffee table, in front of him. He felt her sit down on the couch, no doubt nursing her own cup of tea. He refused to look at her. She didn't say a word, didn't pick up a magazine, didn't switch on the television. She just sat with him, in silence, at the other end of the couch nursing her cup of tea.
He didn't know how many minutes or hours passed before her soft, tentative voice broke the silence.
"Harm?"
"What." He said with as much impatience as he could muster, not yet ready to relinquish his anger.
She continued in the same hesitant, conciliatory tone. "I really do need to go grocery shopping."
His anger almost melted at her tone, at the way she phrased her request. Almost. But he was not yet done tending to his hurt.
Without so much as looking in her direction, he pushed himself up off the couch and walked to the entryway in brisk, angry strides. He grabbed his coat from the hooks by the door and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.
"Then let's go." He didn't bother taming the irritation and impatience in his words
He heard her slide off the couch and pick up their mugs, the ceramic clanging together loudly in the heavy silence that had settled in the room. He stood facing the door, waiting for her as she went to the kitchen to put their mugs in the sink. Another heavy clang resounded. He crossed his arms impatiently as she went to her bedroom and then re-emerged wearing a jacket, her purse slung over her shoulder. She shoved her feet into a pair of shoes, her movements were jerky, abrupt. She was scowling, and he could see anger seething in her eyes.
"Let's go." She repeated. The irritation and impatience in her tone matched his. He won this round, he thought as he closed the front door behind them. The satisfaction of victory left him feeling oddly empty.