Disclaimer: I don't own the show, its contents or characters.
A/N: Another one. Something like my first one, although the tables have turned. I've always had a hard time understanding Harm's character so this wasn't easy to write. There is a reference to Lifeline, but you can pretend Mac was never engaged if you like, I don't mind since I'm leaning towards doing the same.
The First Time
He heard the soft patter of her footsteps in the hallway and braced himself. If he were to be honest, he had been looking forward to her coming home, to him, more than a little eagerly ever since his interview with P.O. Martins earlier that afternoon. When she had called to inform him that she would be late for their planned dinner, he wanted to tell her that it was unacceptable. He needed her company and she should be there, whatever else demanded her attention could wait. Instead, he had responded with feigned nonchalance that it wouldn't be a problem in the least, hoping that she would see through his act as she had so many times before. He wondered when exactly it was that just her presence, the softness of her skin under his fingers, the warmth in her eyes focused solely on him, had become such a balm. They had spoken once, a lifetime ago it seemed,of lifelines and nooses. He found it ironic that the threat of a noose was still there, even if it was made of another kind of rope. A sardonic laugh escaped his lips, talk about taking analogies too far, he thought.
He had left the door unlocked for her, as was his habit when she was coming over for dinner, so he stayed in the kitchen, by the stove top, pretending to watch the rice boil. His brain momentarily stopped working as he heard her turn the doorknob. This was unfamiliar territory, for him at least, and he had no idea how to proceed. He wasn't even sure he wanted to proceed.
Mac stood outside the door, one hand clutching her briefcase, the other on the half-turned doorknob. Unquestionably, his voice had sounded strange when she had called him after her meeting with the Admiral. Apparently, some new protocols were being implemented for certain government operations that would directly affect JAG HQ, and could she see to it that this transition went smoothly? Before the end of the day. She had barely contained a sigh at that last order. She enjoyed being Chief of Staff, there was no denying it, but sometimes the paperwork and bureaucracy just sucked the life out of her. She would hand in her report by end of day, only to have it sit on someone else's desk, collecting dust. And she had so been looking forward to a long, leisurely dinner with Harm. They were really heading somewhere, she could feel it. This possibility in itself thrilled her.
He had been such an enigma when they had first met. His hesitancy bordering on catatonic shock when he first saw her had thrown her for a loop. Although the reason behind his strange reaction had been cleared up, there were still times when she couldn't understand him in the least. She had often thought she could see some embryonic thought, the beginnings of some emotion he was wrestling with, lingering behind those captivating eyes of his. But then he would say or do something that would convince her that it was all a chimera of her own making. At first, she had thought that his easy-go-lucky, larger-than-life attitude was a front and the real him was the obsessive man with white-knight syndrome. Perhaps he was attempting to be something he didn't quite feel. Whether this was for the benefit of his Navy career or to appease demanding members of his family, she couldn't decide. Now, all this time later, she considered herself incredibly fortunate to have discovered – and to still continually be discovering – the real him. Her older self, the one that tried to place Harm in a convenient box, was still a source of some amusement to her. She had grown a lot, learned to trust a lot more, and she knew her friendship with Harm shouldered a lot of the responsibility for softening some of the rough edges she had held on to ever since her mother had disappeared from her life. She hoped that in some fashion, at least, she was returning the favour to him.
Which brought her back to the phone call. He had sounded…lost. It was an odd word to associate with Harm. Something must really have been troubling him. She had rushed through that ridiculous assignment the Admiral had given her acknowledging, not for the first time, that the proper incentive could work wonders for productivity, and had managed to leave the office an hour before she had initially expected to. She could smell his cooking but beyond that the apartment seemed quiet. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and pushed the door open.
While these thoughts had flitted through Mac's mind and she had stood hesitating at the threshold to Harm's apartment, Harm had stood by the stove, eyes on the boiling rice and mind on the marine who just wasn't coming through the door. He finally heard the door swing open but decided to stay focussed on the rice rather than turn around. He glanced at the clock on the microwave – she was early. Maybe she had seen through his act. That thought in itself pierced through his troubled mood like a shaft of sunlight. He turned around to face her.
"Evening," he was pleased to see her standing in his doorway, hanging her coat up as though she belonged. And she did, he reminded himself.
"Hi, Harm." She smiled and made her way towards him as she ran her fingers through her wind-tussled hair. "I'm sorry I'm late, I tried to rush through that assignment as much as I could. We'd be better off dropping the contents of my inbox on enemy territory instead of bombs. Bury them in paperwork…" she trailed off her rambling as she came up to him, toe-to-toe. She ran her fingers under his eyes and down his cheek, noting how worn down he looked, before clasping her hands behind his neck. She stood up on the tip of her toes and gave him a soft but brief kiss.
"What is it?"
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, loving that she had known to ask the question, not knowing how to give an answer.
She tried again, "Bud mentioned that your interview this afternoon didn't go too well." Truthfully, Bud had been more than his usual discombobulated self. Lately, he had been taking Harm and Mac's strange quirks in stride, but this afternoon he was really concerned about Harm. And if Bud's level of awkwardness was an accurate measure of his concern, then something was definitely up. This only served to concern her further. She couldn't remember the last time a client had so put him out of sorts.
Harm encircled her waist with his arms and tightened his hold. He would tell her, but he needed this first. Giving her one final squeeze he let her go and turned towards the stove. Mac watched as he took a spoon and dipped it in the pot of rice. Her brow furrowed in confusion as the spoon re-emerged from under the water full of a sticky, white, porridge-like substance.
"Harm, how long has the rice been cooking?"
That seemed to break him out of his distant funk.
"Shit!" He turned the burner off, grabbed the pot and dumped its contents into the colander in the sink. The rice came out in gooey clumps. Suddenly, he dropped the now empty pot into the sink, put his elbows on the counter and hung his head.
She could hear him taking deep breaths, could see the slight heave of his shoulders. She put her hand between his shoulder blades.
"It's alright," she couldn't help but sound worried. Maybe an attempt at levity would work, "I had a sudden craving today for that slop from boot camp."
No reaction. So levity wouldn't work. She tried to run through the specifics of the Martins case, but all she could remember having read was that it involved a Petty Officer who had been accused of some misdemeanour.
"Harm-"
"I don't want to talk about it right now. Can we just eat dinner?" He tried to keep the edge out of his voice.
She removed her hand. "Sure. I'll get the plates."
Immediately, he felt guilty for his reaction towards her.
"It hit a bit too close to home," he managed to get it out. Maybe the rest wouldn't be so hard.
"The case?" She was more than willing to go at his pace. One thing her years with him had taught her was that Harm was not one to voice his thoughts or feelings very often. She remembered his reaction to the discovery of his father's final years. Watching him stare out into the valley, tight-lipped and troubled, was not something she cared to dwell on too often. If ever she were to be asked what sadness looked like, she knew her answer: an endless valley of evergreens and mist where a boy lost his heart and a man, his self.
"The case," he hesitated before continuing, "Jonas Martins."
"The accused?"
He simply nodded. He had not moved from his bowed position by the sink, the steam from the rice was rising around his clasped hands. She leaned with her back on the counter next to him and folded her arms. She waited.
"Petty Officer and newly minted father," he finally added.
Maybe this did have something to do with Harm's father. She wondered, not for the first time, how long Harm Sr.'s spectre would shadow his son, and how long his son would let it. She watched his hunched form carefully, waiting for more. One minute. Two. Three. At the forty-five second mark, she decided to prod a bit. She turned around and leaned against the counter on her still folded arms. Before she could speak, however, Harm turned his head in her direction. His gaze fell on her hands and he took one in his own before focussing once again on the still steaming rice.
"You're stronger than I am," he said, his eyes fixed on some distant memory.
Now she was really confused. What had brought this on?
Harm continued, "At first, when you told me about your father, I wondered which of us had it worse. I had no father, but an image to idolize. You had a father, but he was hardly a role model." He was slowly sliding his thumb along her knuckles, enjoying the soft feel of the ridges under his own calloused finger. "In a way," he paused and turned his gaze to her face. He saw her eyes attentively focused on him and thought somehow that it should be harder than this. "In a way, we are a lot alike."
She was trying to follow his train of thought. True, they had both been deeply affected by their parents, forming decisions in reaction to them. Her father's alcoholism. Her mother's disappearance. His father's disappearance. His mother's grief. But, then, wasn't everyone affected to some degree by their parents? She hardly thought they were such singular cases.
"I wanted to be everything my dad embodied. You want to be everything yours was supposed to embody," he studied her carefully. She had a faraway look in her eyes. "I didn't even realize that all along I was trying to be what he should have been. I had wanted to be a pilot because it was practically a family tradition. I didn't even care to question it. And I knew it would bring me closer to my dad. But I never looked at the rest of it-" Her attention was pulled back to him when he stopped. There was that lost look again.
She couldn't help herself. Shifting slightly, she traced the shell of his ear with the index finger of her free hand. "The rest of...?" She hoped it would prompt him to continue. Just a little more and she might be able to understand what he was thinking.
He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on her hand. "My dad got married young, really young, to the second woman he ever dated…well, dated before he got married," he shook his head to force his thoughts back to his point. "I have dated a whole hell of a lot. I can't even count on my fingers how many I went through my first year of flight school alone. I am not married and am certainly no longer young. He had a kid the first year into his marriage. I have none," he paused for a moment.
"That I know of," "That you know of," they said it simultaneously before eyeing each other with amusement. Harm broke their gaze and sighed.
"I thought I had put all that behind me. I thought I was finally in a place where I was over it. Something the petty officer said just hit me. Dad was not what I tried to be, ever. I tried to be what he wasn't. I would not have a wife and kid that I'd leave behind when I deployed or, God forbid, went down in enemy territory. I would not leave my wife to try and get on with life, to try and fall in love with another man all the while not knowing if I was alive or dead. I would not do any of that stuff that left my kid spending what should have been the best years of my life in search of a man who couldn't search back." He was appalled at his own revelation. Having it float around in his head was one thing, saying it out loud seemed to give it a life of its own. By the end of his tirade, Harm's voice had raised considerably, though he still remained bowed over the sink not quite able to look at Mac. His hand, however, was holding hers in a vice-like grip.
She wondered if he noticed his slip of the tongue. The look on his face led her to think he hadn't. Some of the tension she had unconsciously been feeling since their phone call earlier that day began to loosen its hold. This Harm, she knew how to help. This Harm was her close friend of many years who, apparently, had not yet come to terms with his father's disappearance and death and was suddenly facing an identity crisis of sorts.
She stepped closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. The part of her mind that was not processing what Harm had just said was busy savouring the relief that slowly simmered at his having said it. He had really meant it that night – had it already been three weeks? – when she had told him, and she still didn't know what had motivated her to do it, that some people weren't meant to be only friends, "just like us." She was sure she looked as surprised as he did at the revelation. He recovered first, though, eyed her in a way she didn't know he was capable of and said two words, "Definitely not."
Bold. She could do bold, "so," was she really going to do it, "where does that leave us?"
There was that look again, "in a much better place, Mac."
Not that she'd ever doubt his word, but this in his kitchen over a colander full of overcooked rice was their real heart-to-heart since they had agreed to try and be exactly what she felt they were meant to: more than friends. She had worried that this coasting period where everything was new and wonderful would come to a screeching end in a pile of wreckage and flames. They had made – still made – excellent friends, but when she was in a mood to be introspective it concerned her that they were both pretty much middle-aged and more often single than not. She had hoped that phase of their lives had ended three weeks ago. This conversation, however, was causing her to think that the 'friends' aspect of their 'more than friends' relationship was more foundational than she had given it credit for. If they could make it through this conversation none the worse for the wear...
"Harm,"
"Hmm?" He still wouldn't look at her.
"I never considered that I was fighting to be what I thought my father should have been," it crossed her mind that that word would only ever feel awkward on her tongue. "I joined the marines because Uncle Matt was a marine and I did nothing if not admire him. I owe what I am more to him," she paused, "and recently you, than I do my father."
He looked up at her, but this time her eyes had settled on the slowly congealing rice. She lifted her gaze to his and continued, "Now, knowing all you know, you can look back and think your decisions were all a knee-jerk response to anger at his abandonment of you. But that wouldn't be honest. When you applied for Annapolis, were you thinking you wanted to be a foil to your dad? When you took off from a carrier for the first time and every time you've flown since then, did you think you did a better job because you had no one to leave behind? You love flying and you love the Navy. It's in your blood. We are all impacted by our parents, but you, Harm, are who you are. Not what your father wasn't." It was her turn to get worked up.
She took a breath to calm herself and saw a hint of amusement in his eyes. He was seeing the truth in her words. It was time to take his cue and lighten things up, "and, yes, I do have an idea of why Martins' comment, whatever it may have been, shook you up." He raised an eyebrow in question.
"Harm, you may not want to hear this from me."
He seriously doubted that he wouldn't want to hear whatever she was about to say, if she said it in that playfully warning tone. He waited for her to continue.
"Well, alright. But I warned you. You are suffering from a classic case of what is widely known as a mid-life crisis. Now, before you frown at me, consider the symptoms."
He did not want to consider the symptoms.
She slipped her hand from his grasp and started counting on her fingers. "First, you just said you actually regretted not getting married fresh out of high school: delusions are a classic symptom. Second, you yourself said you were no longer young: clearly out of character for you, another common symptom" she didn't allow him the time to argue that denial might be a more appropriate symptom. "Third, you thought you could feed me that slop you call rice. That can only mean-"
"That I know how much you love eating at the mess, Mac MD." He watched her eyes light up with a smile and felt something unidentifiable in his gut. "Thanks, Mac."
She didn't know how to respond to that with words, so she placed her hand in his once again and gave him a lingering kiss.
"We should eat," she said softly when they finally parted.
"The rice..."
"Is still edible, Harm."
They both glanced at the cold, wet clump in his sink. He looked dubious, she looked determined.
"Pretend it's sticky rice, or something," she suggested.
He did not look convinced so she opted to change the subject while lifting the colander out of the sink.
"Bud was really out of sorts today. You might want to talk to him tomorrow. I haven't seen anyone look like that since my commanding officer in Okinawa after our entire unit lost their boots in the jungle training course."
He latched on to what he thought might be the more important part of her statement, "You hiked in a jungle barefoot?"
"Yup. We lost those boots under the oddest of circumstances, too – took awhile to even convince the CO that-"
"Barefoot? Mac..." He was convinced she was making it up.
She knew what was coming, she warned him, "Harm-"
He rolled his eyes, she could be infuriating. God, how he loved that, "you're a marine, I know, and you walked the jungles of unknown corners of the world, barefoot with 60 pounds of equipment on your back and two guns strapped to each shoulder."
She raised an eyebrow.
"In the rain."
Her eyebrow inched higher.
"While being chased by mountain lions."
Amazingly enough, her eyebrow inched higher still.
He sighed in mock resignation, "while I was still sleeping in a cushy bed after eating a warm meal."
She broke out in a grin and gave him a light punch on the arm. "Damn straight. So don't 'Mac' me."
"Well," he couldn't help but tease her, "that punch was unworthy of a marine. We'd better feed you before you end up-"
"Hitting like a squid." It delighted her that he laughed out loud at her comeback. She watched him for a moment before taking a casserole dish for the rice out of the cupboard.
His mind went over the last half hour. He felt infinitely better, due in large part to the woman standing next to him, tipping the rice – now rice pudding – into a casserole dish. If only she could always be there, next to him, instead of him having toask herwhether she had plans for the eveningand if she would be willing to have dinner with him. It was time, he felt, to make some kind of declaration. His brain, for an instant, tripped over the thought. A declaration? How? Mac was right; him getting married young was a ludicrous notion. If someone had mentioned the words 'declaration' - obviously implying commitment - and 'girlfriend' in the same sentence but a month ago, he was sure his skin would have crawled at the thought, his feet would have itched to leave the room. He glanced at Mac, who was digging through his kitchen drawers for a serving spoon. She was hardly an ordinary girlfriend. He wondered what attracted her to him, what led her to want more than friendship. It was definitely time for a declaration.
He followed her towards the dinner table, lighter in hand, his brain still trying to wrap itself around the concept of commitments and declarations. He wished he had a book on the subject: 'Making Declarations 101', or 'The Next Step: Moving a Relationship Forward'. Maybe if he and Mac could – no, when he and Mac did - work this thing of theirs out, she'd go halves on a book with him, too. The memory of their discussion about the commitment level implied by car shopping with a girlfriend flashed through his mind.
"I'm thinking of buying a TV," he said casually while lighting the candles on the table. Well, he hoped it sounded casual since he was too busy remembering to breath to take proper notice.
"You don't watch TV," she placed a fork by his plate and glanced up at him. He was so odd at times, she might never understand all of him. She was so intent on wondering if this mystery was something she wanted that she almost missed his next words.
"You do." Breath in, breath out.
Her arm stopped, the fork danglingbetween her fingertips. She forced her hand to place the fork down while debating what to do. She really really wanted to do a couple of cartwheels and throw herself into his arms with a strength that would topple him over. She wondered how he would react to that. Maybe think she had lost her mind. This was perhaps the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. She knew how he was, after all, she'd observed it in his past relationships: a commitment-phobic jet jock to the nth degree. She had often thought thathe personified that old stereotype with uncannyaccuracy.
Apparently, she had been wrong.She was so happy she had been wrong.Maybe if she settled on jumping up and down a few timesandclapping her hands together with glee...Right, really mature, Mac.
"Mac?" What was going on in that mind of hers? He had pretty much laid his heart on the line - in a roundabout and veiled kind of way - but he had laid it out nonetheless. Maybe this was too much too soon? He'd noted during his casual, well maybe not casual, observation of her with the men she had previously dated, that it took a while for her to warm up to someone.
Before he could berate himself any further, he felt her arms come around him in an extremely tight embrace.
"Oww, marine. I like my lungs." He couldn't put his sense of relief into words.
She mumbled something into his chest.
"What's that?"
"I do watch TV," she hesitated an instant, wondering if she should add more or respond to his oblique statement in kind. Well, wouldn't do to crowd him at this point, so oblique it was, "thank you."
"My motivations are purely selfish, Mac. I just want you around."
She nuzzled deeper into his embrace and it occurred to him that if this is what contentment felt like, he had never really been content before.
They held each other for a while longer before settling down for dinner, sticky rice and all.