Two hundred and eighty-seven days after that fateful night at McMurphy's Mac is still in San Diego and Harm is still in London. During that time she's made two trips to England, and he's made two to the states. They talk on the phone several times a week and exchange emails several times a day. They've established their new commands and earned the respect of their staff and the approval of their superiors. They are, as they always have been, consummate professionals and a credit to the military behemoth they serve. But they're finding it increasingly difficult to remember why they agreed when General Cresswell asked that they "give him a little time," and "don't make any decisions they might regret later." He'd been vague as to his reasons, and virtually silent on the matter in the days, weeks, and months since.
At 0933 local time on day two hundred and ninety-one Mac types up her request for terminal leave, signs it, and tucks it into a pre-addressed, stamped envelope. She hasn't mentioned her decision to Harm. He'll only try to talk her out of it. Dropping the letter in her outbox, she turns to her computer. When Petty Officer Coates comes in to collect the outgoing mail she barely lifts her head, her attention focused on the flight schedules on her screen.
At 1745 local time on the same day Harm tells Mattie they're going home. He doesn't tell Mac when they talk on the phone a few minutes later because he knows she'll try to change his mind. Mattie is thrilled. She's done well in London, but she isn't really happy there, and they both know it. She wants to finish earning her pilot's license when they get back, and can they please, finally, get a dog? Harm laughs, says maybe, and arranges for her to stay with friends while he flies back to sort out the details with Mac.
*****
*****
On the plane, Mac reads the Telegraph and the Sun and wonders what her life will be like without the Marine Corps at her back.
During his flight, Harm checks the San Diego Tribune's want ads and weighs a future as a civilian attorney against the possibility of starting his own flight school.
*****
*****
In Washington D.C., General Cresswell meets with the SECNAV. Bud accompanies the general in order to provide corroborating evidence. Per his superior's orders, Bud brings two thick personnel files with him. But the files remain closed for the duration of the meeting, the Judge Advocate General having long since committed their rather astonishing contents to memory.
*****
*****
Somewhere over the Atlantic the pilot of a Boeing 767 exchanges pleasantries with the pilot of a Boeing 777. "Situation normal," they say. "Favorable winds. Light turbulence." The 767 counts a small group of Catholic nuns among its passengers. The 777 carries a hockey team bound for an international playoff game.
Mac accrues twelve hours, forty-seven minutes travel time and arrives in London nineteen hours and twelve minutes after she left San Diego. Her internal clock adjusts without a flicker.
Harm accrues sixteen hours and thirty-three minutes travel time and arrives in San Diego nine and a half hours after leaving London. He bites back a yawn while he resets his watch.
*****
*****
An hour after his flight lands Harm walks into Mac's office. Coates is away from her desk, but he's been here before and the staff knows him, so he doesn't feel awkward about going in without waiting for an invitation.
Surprisingly, Mac's not there. He checks his watch against the clock on the wall and then moves behind her desk, looking for her calendar. This time of day she should be at work, and the fact that she isn't both puzzles and concerns him. A photograph beside the computer distracts him from his search. He picks it up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His mother took this one the last time they visited, but this is the first time he's seen it. In the picture Mac is leaning against him, her back resting against his chest. His arms are looped around her waist. She's laughing about something, her face turned up to his, and he's smiling down at her. The love in their eyes is striking.
It's a moment out of time, and his mother captured it perfectly, even down to the glint of sunshine on Mac's engagement ring. Mom always did have a knack with the camera.
"Captain Rabb!"
It's Coates, and the patent shock in her voice makes him raise an eyebrow as he returns the photograph to its place.
"Coates." He crosses the room to her. "It's been a while."
"Yes, sir. It has, sir." She's practically stuttering, her eyes wide as she stares at him.
"Is something wrong, Jen?" The use of her given name is deliberate. "Where's Mac?"
"Sir. Um. She's not here."
It isn't like Jen to state the obvious, and Harm waits, arms folded, for her to pull herself together.
"Actually, sir." A pause. A deep breath. "Colonel MacKenzie's in London."
"London!"
Heads snap up in the bullpen. Eyes flicker their way. Harm takes Jen's elbow and pulls her into Mac's office, closing the door behind them.
"What the hell is she doing in London?"
Jen's chin comes up. Her shoulders snap back. Fire flickers in her eyes. "She went to see you, sir."
"But I'm not there." Apparently it's his turn to state the obvious.
"I can see that, sir."
He sighs and sinks into a chair. "I wish she'd said something ..."
Jen snorts her amusement. "Did you say anything to her, sir?"
He shakes his head as the irony of it all sinks in. "I wanted to surprise her."
"Oh, I'm pretty sure she'll be surprised."
*****
*****
The London staff knows Mac, and though she garners a few curious looks as she crosses the bullpen, nobody questions her presence. The fact that she's wearing civilian attire doesn't negate her commanding presence or her status as Harm's fiancée.
Harm's office is neat and professional, but Mac recognizes his subtle touch in the scale-model Tomcat perched on top of one of the bookcases, the artwork that adorns the wall opposite his desk - an oil painting of the Taiga - and in the pair of framed photographs beside his computer. She picks up one of these, her expression softening as she brushes her fingertips over the glass. In the photo she and Harm are supporting a triumphant Mattie, whose months of hard work in rehab had finally paid off in three halting solo steps. Mattie swears it was a coincidence that it happened while Mac was in London, but Mac knows better. The entire event was planned with the military precision of a general staging a battle, and the memory of it still has the power to bring a lump to Mac's throat.
A quick scan of the room reveals the absence of Harm's briefcase, jacket, and cover. His young assistant, Petty Officer Wilkens, is likewise nowhere to be found, though the condition of his desk seems to indicate that he hasn't yet secured for the day. Harm usually makes it a point to be the last out of the office, but if he has a late meeting elsewhere it's possible he would go straight home afterwards. Her best bet is probably to wait for him there. If she's lucky Mattie will be home and they can spend some time catching up while they wait for Harm.
Before she can act on her decision she feels the tell-tale vibration of the cell phone in her hip pocket. She reaches for it, snaps it open, and smiles when she sees the name on the display.
"Hey, Sailor."
"Hey, yourself."
It's a familiar exchange. Had she been the one calling him, it would've been Marine instead of Sailor, but the rest would've been the same. She wonders absently when the affectionate greeting had become a habit.
"What are you doing right now?" He asks.
Rather than give away her location, she hedges. "I'm about to go into a meeting."
"Really?"
The restrained amusement in his voice puzzles her. "Yes, really."
"Interesting."
"Why do you say it like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I just missed a punch line."
"Lemme ask you a question."
"What?" She asks, wary now. Something's up, and the fact that she doesn't know what it is is vaguely irritating.
"When did Mom send you this picture?"
His phrasing is a clue, but she's just jet-lagged enough to miss it. "What picture?"
"This one of you and me on the back patio." There's a slight pause and then, "It came out really well, didn't it."
Confusion turns to dismay. There's only one way he could know about that picture. "Harm ... "
"Yes, Mac?" He's all innocence, but the laughter in his voice confirms her suspicions.
"Where are you right now?"
"Right now?"
"Yes. Right now."
"Oh. Well." Another pause. A clearing of the throat. Then, "I'm standing in the middle of your office."
"My office."
"Yes."
"In San Diego."
"Do you have another office I don't know about?"
She imagines she can actually hear his raised eyebrow. With a groan, she sinks into his empty desk chair. "Damn it."
His voice softens instantly. "Hey, buck up, Mac. It isn't all that bad."
"Isn't it?"
"Think about it. What are the odds that we'd both pick the same weekend for a surprise visit? Must be true what they say about great minds."
She snorts at that. "Not all that great, Harm. There's still an entire continent between us."
His voice takes on that seductive tone that never fails to make heat curl in her stomach. "Meet me."
"Harm--" But her will is weak where he's concerned and he knows it.
"I'll catch a plane East, you catch a plane West … We'll meet in the middle."
"Not unless you plan on bringing a rowboat. Halfway between San Diego and London puts us almost five-hundred miles into the Atlantic."
"Smartass." His laugh is low and warm. "Georgia."
"Pardon me?"
"There's this little island off the Georgia coast. Meet me there. I'll be the guy in the dark blue trunks."
Sun, sand, and Harm. It's an appealing thought. "I don't know if I can get a flight."
"Already done. Coates is a regular miracle worker."
Despite herself, Mac laughs at that. "All right. Give me the information."
When they sign off, she's smiling. Despite the unpredictable nature of life with Harm, she wouldn't give it up for the world.
*****
*****
He reaches the small rental cabin hours before she does. He resets his watch again, but his body calls him a liar and he ends up falling asleep almost as soon as he finishes putting away the bag of groceries he'd picked up.
*****
*****
Mac sleeps on the plane. She's long since learned it's the best way to combat jet lag. When she arrives at the cabin she's well-rested and excited. And she still has three days leave.
Their temporary home is rustic. Set back from the narrow paved road and almost hidden in the trees, it sports a weathered, screened-in front porch and a small brook that dances its way out of sight in the tall grasses. A narrow pathway beckons her toward the ocean, but Mac's feet carry her up two shallow steps and through a screen door whose rusty hinges file a noisy harassment complaint against the salt-laden air.
The main living area is empty, the space cool and silent. She sets down her bag, turns to the only other doorway, and feels her heart stutter in her chest.
He's sprawled across the bed, fast asleep.
She slips her shoes off and moves to his side.
"Harm."
It's just a breath of sound in a room shaded by Palmetto trees and scented with the sea, but it's enough. His eyes drift open. He blinks. Smiles. His voice is low and husky, heavy with sleep.
"Who knew this cabin came with a resident mermaid?"
"I'm told it's a bonus feature."
He draws her down beside him. His arms close around her, and just that fast it's them again. Not him and her. Not London and San Diego. Not nine years of waiting and handfuls of relationships that just aren't quite right. This is them. And it's perfect in ways nothing else ever has been or ever will be.
Their lovemaking is slow and easy, languorous as the sun-warmed sea. Afterwards, she rests her head on his shoulder and he rests his hand at the curve of her waist. They listen to the pulse of the sea and watch the end of the day, and for a little while the frustrations that drove them here seem trivial and insignificant.
Finally Harm presses a kiss against her hair. "I picked up some shrimp on the way in," he says. "You hungry?"
Mac's stomach rumbles an answer and she smiles against his chest. "Apparently so."
They prepare a simple meal - shrimp, pasta, and salad - with easy efficiency and quiet camaraderie. While they work, they talk about Mattie and their jobs, but neither one mentions the letters that await General Cresswell's attention.
It's late by the time they finish cleaning up, but they aren't sleepy, so by tacit agreement they make their way down the narrow path to the beach. The moon is up and just shy of full, its light making sparks of fire dance on the water. They walk hand in hand down along the wide expanse of damp sand. Startled crabs scuttle out of the way, and near the horizon some kind of ship winds its way toward port, its running lights giving the illusion of floating stars.
"Mac ... There's something we need to talk about."
His voice holds that note of determination it gets when he's gearing up for a fight. Mac can only think of one thing that would draw that reaction from him. She wonders how he learned of her resignation.
"You're right. We do need to talk," she says, the peace she's felt all evening slipping away on the outgoing tide. "But I'm not going to change my mind."
He pulls her to a stop, turning so that he can see her face. "What are you talking about?"
The breath she takes is heavy with humidity and the smells of the sea, and yet somehow saying the words makes her feel lighter. "I filed my request for terminal leave a few days ago. Cresswell probably has it by now."
Years later they will laugh over that moment, but when it first happens, he can only stare at her in open-mouthed shock.
"You didn't."
But she's already rushing ahead, determined to state her case before he can argue.
"I'm sick of this limbo, Harm. I don't care who won the damned coin toss or how much money I'll be giving up. I can be a lawyer, and a damned good one, without a uniform."
"Mac--"
"No." She shakes her head, cutting him off. "You aren't going to change my mind, so don't even bother trying. This is what I want." Looping her hands behind his back, she rests her head against his chest. "We'll make it work, Harm. No regrets. No recriminations. No more letting somebody else decide our futures. It'll be a fresh start for us. "
Astoundingly, she feels laughter rise up in his chest, but when she tries to lift her head he stops her, holding her tight, his cheek resting against her hair while the humor rolls over him.
"Ahh, Mac." The words, warm with affectionate humor, surf the crest of a long sigh. "We have got to work on our communication skills."
And then she does lift her head. His grin is wide, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
"What?"
He moves his hands to her shoulders, squeezes slightly as if to brace her for what he's about to say.
"I posted my own terminal leave request three days ago. At least--" He glances from the moon to his watch and back again. "I think it was three days ago."
It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. When they do, she takes a startled step back. "You're joking."
He shakes his head and drops his hands to his sides. "Nope."
"So we're both out of a job."
"Looks that way."
"And we have no place to live."
"Apparently not."
"And the whole world thinks we've lost our minds."
"Probably." He rests his hand against the curve of her cheek. "But if this is what losing my mind feels like I kind of wish it'd happened years ago." And with that he takes her in his arms and lowers his lips to hers and for a long time their conversation happens in the silent language of lovers.
When he finally lifts his head Mac's lips are swollen from his kisses, but she doesn't seem to mind, her soft smile belied by the hunger in her eyes. She lets her hand trail down the front of his shirt and feels the sharp rise of his chest as he takes in air.
"Maybe we should continue this conversation back at the cabin?" Her voice is low and sultry, its quiet tones laced with invitation.
"I think--" He pauses, swallows hard, and captures her wayward hand. "That's a good idea."
*****
*****
General Cresswell's morning routine never varies. He's in the office by 0700, coffee in hand, hair still shower-damp after a brisk five-mile jog. He checks his messages, downloads his email, and sorts through the morning mail. That done, he ends the ritual with a quick perusal of his notes for the daily briefing. The entire process takes about twenty minutes and leaves him with a strong sense of what to expect from his day.
Only on this particular day, the routine comes to a sudden, explosive halt.
He skims a letter. Pauses. Reads it again, more slowly. Setting it aside, he picks up another, reading this one twice as well.
"Marshall!"
The bellow thunders through a still-sleepy bullpen, spawning questioning glances and quick checks of todo lists in its wake. A nervous petty officer leaps up from his desk just as the voice rings out again.
"Marshall!"
"Sir?"
"Get me the SECNAV. Now!"
"Sir, it's only 0730. The SECNAV never arrives before 0900."
There's a short, heavy silence, and then another roar. "Then call him at home!"
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Petty Officer Marshall backs out, all but bowing. But Cresswell ignores him, his attention returning to the two letters. He picks one up, then the other. Shakes his head.
"I should've known the two of you would do something stupid." He murmurs the words to an empty room. "It isn't as if you don't have a reputation for it."
"Sir." Marshall's head appears around the corner of the door, his body safely out of harm's way behind the thick wooden panel. "I've got the secretary on line one."
"Thank you."
Ignoring the petty officer's rapid retreat, Cresswell picks up the phone.
"Mr. Secretary." His voice is respectful, but an angry hum simmers in the brisk tone. "We've got a problem."
*****
*****
Harm wakes to the sound of birdsong and the feel of Mac curled in his arms. He lies very still, unwilling to disturb her rest. But Mac has always been a light sleeper, and it isn't long before she shifts, twining her fingers with his on the pillow.
"Good morning." She says it without rolling over, and he wonders how she knows he's awake.
"Morning, beautiful."
"Ugh." Her snort is no less heartfelt for being quiet. "I've got a serious case of bed-head, my mouth tastes like sawdust, and I need to pee."
He laughs. "Why Mac. Who knew you were such a romantic?"
She kisses his hand and swings her feet over the side of the bed. "Shower first," she says. "Romance later."
*****
*****
She emerges to find him in the kitchen, a thin cotton towel draped over his shoulder and a bowl of eggs in his hand. She leans against the door jamb and watches him pour the eggs into the skillet.
"Now that's my idea of romance," she says, a hint of mischief in her voice.
He looks up with an answering smile. "Oh, yeah? Well enjoy it." He shakes the spatula in her direction before using it to give the eggs an expert turn. "Because dinner's on you."
"Hope you like grilled cheese."
He flashes her another grin, but whatever he's about to say gets cut off by the ring of a cell phone.
"Yours," she says, but before she can snag a strawberry from the bowl on the counter her own cell phone rings in the other room. With a sigh she takes the pan of eggs off the burner and hurries to catch the call before it goes to voice mail.
Seconds later she and Harm are staring at each other across the small living area as they wait to be connected to the SECNAV.
*****
*****
"Captain Rabb. Colonel MacKenzie. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time?"
"No, sir." They speak in unison, years of habit lending starch to the otherwise bland reply.
"You two have been responsible for quite the little brouhaha up here in Washington."
"Sir?" It's Mac. Across from her Harm shrugs, as baffled as she is.
"General Cresswell can be a bit of a bulldog. He's been after me for months to find a way to keep you two in the JAG Corps." There's a pause, a murmur of background conversation. Then, "Anyway, fifteen minutes ago Cresswell calls me. Seems you two fools fired off a twin set of terminal leave requests."
"Yes, sir." Harm this time. "We think maybe it's time to move on."
"I see." The silence is longer this time. "I don't suppose I can change your minds ..."
Harm lifts an eyebrow at Mac as he responds. "What did you have in mind, sir?"
"How does Hawaii sound? I've got a pair of spots opening up in a couple of weeks, and General Cresswell swears you two are the best people for the job."
"Hawaii, sir?" To her credit, Mac's voice carries no hint of her reaction, but Harm sees the brilliant smile spread across her face.
"Well, it's either that or Okinawa, but I thought you might appreciate staying a little closer to home."
"May we have a few minutes to talk it over, Mr. Secretary?" Harm looks a question at Mac, gets a nod in reply. "It's a big decision."
The request is met with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Call me back in an hour."
The line goes dead, and Harm and Mac slowly close their cell phones. Mac is the first to speak.
"What do you suppose that was all about?"
Harm's shrug is accompanied by a crooked smile. "Well it's obvious, isn't it? They can't live without us."
With a snort, Mac turns back to the kitchen. "Right."
"Hey. Mac." He stops her, his hand gentle on her shoulder. "Seriously. What do you think?"
She turns back with a sigh. "I don't know, Harm. It's all so sudden."
"It'd save our pensions .."
"And put us back under the Navy's thumb."
"That never bothered you before ..."
"I never had a family before."
"A family." He smiles. "I like the sound of that."
"If we stay in, they can split us up again anytime--and not just for case related TDAs."
"Mac, this doesn't have to be the end of the line. We can take this offer, and if it doesn't work out--" He takes her hand. "--for either of us, we go back to plan A."
She fans the fingers of her free hand over his heart. "After all this time ... Could it really be this easy?"
"Surprisingly enough, it looks that way."
*****
*****
The wedding takes place three hundred and sixty-five days after that fateful night at McMurphy's. Harm jokes that it'll make it easier to remember their anniversary.
Mac raises an eyebrow at him. "You'd only forget once," she says.
Harm wears his dress whites, Mac, an elegant satin gown. Harriet stands as Matron of Honor, Mattie as Maid of Honor, and Bud, looking distinguished in his own dress whites, serves as best man. Chloe leads the procession down the aisle, dropping handfuls of Hibiscus blossoms as she goes.
Nobody gives Mac away. Instead she walks alone down the sandy, flower-strewn aisle, her head held high and her gaze locked on Harm's. She is independent in this moment, as she is in every other, but there's no mistaking the love in her eyes as she moves toward the makeshift altar and the handsome Navy captain who waits nearby.
The ceremony is simple, the vows traditional. The only interruption occurs in the form of a greedy red-footed booby. The bird, undoubtedly mistaking the glint of sunlight on gold for food, makes a high-flying attempt to steal a wedding ring--much to the guests' unmitigated delight. But Bud emerges from the brief battle unscathed, and after the laughter subsides the unflappable chaplain continues the service.
*****
*****
Sunset finds Harm and Mac walking hand in hand up the path to a small bungalow on a deserted stretch of beach. There's a kind of quiet contentment between them, a sense that the pieces of their lives are finally falling into place. They stop on the front deck and turn to look out over the ocean. The setting sun tints the waves and the sky in glorious shades of red and orange. Birds are starting to sing their night songs in the trees, and the surf, calm for now, whispers quietly to the sand.
Harm wraps his arms around Mac, their position reminiscent of that day on his mother's porch, and smiles when she relaxes into him.
"Happy?" His voice is low, his lips a mere breath from her ear.
"Blissfully."
She turns her head up to his, and he obliges her silent request for a kiss. Then, in a sudden move that surprises a startled yelp from his new bride, he sweeps her up in his arms.
"Harm! What are you doing?"
"Carrying you over the threshold."
"I'm perfectly capable of walking."
"I know."
"It's a ridiculous, chauvinistic custom."
"I know that, too."
But he doesn't put her down, and she doesn't insist. Instead she wraps her arms around his neck and tucks her head into the curve of his shoulder.
The door closes behind them just as the last rays of the sun sink below the horizon.
And far overhead, a pair of jets paint matching contrails against the darkening sky.