CRITICAL CONDITION

"Time discovers truth." - Seneca; Roman philosopher, mid 1st century CE

Post Episode Ficlet for:

CRITICAL CONDITION

Sorry about the unimaginative title, but I honestly could not come up with anything else while I was writing this.

This is the first JAG fic I've written in a long time, my JAG muse having gone on vacation with what is apparently an open-ended ticket, so pleace go easy on me.

There are some hints of HARM/MAC, but mostly it's Harm, Mac, and Jen in the minutes after the end of the episode CRITICAL CONDITION.

Though he had remained stoic and squared away, needing to be strong for Mac, for Jen, and for Mikey and Harriet when he made his periodic phone calls to the house, the relief that flooded Harm was too great, the reality of how close he had come to losing one of his best friends, and the tears started to flow. His legs grew weak and he wished that he hadn't let go of Mac's hand when the Commander came out with an inscrutable look on her tired face.

Harm sank down onto the poorly-padded seat that he had been in and out of for too many hours to count—Mac would know, and if he had ever really registered what his watch was saying any of the times that he had checked it to see how long Bud had been in surgery he would have known, too, but it had been too much to take in for his brain.

"Harm?" Mac said softly, her voice wavering, both with relief and concern as she turned and saw the tears glistening on her partner's cheeks.

Taking the seat next to Harm, Mac snuggled up close to the man she loved, knowing that, as Harm was always telling her, stress had to find a way to release itself. In the back of her mind she knew she should find Coates, call Harriet, inform their unorthodox family back at JAG that Bud's prognosis was good, and maybe start to worry a little about what the Admiral was going to do when she and Harm got back to Washington—there was a lot to do, and they couldn't really afford the luxury of their own mixture of grief and relief. But instead of pulling away and getting back to business as she usually did, Mac wrapped her arms around one of Harm's and nuzzled his neck affectionately.

They sat there, trading comfort back and forth, until Jen came back looking much better than she did when she had run off to empty the meagre contents of her stomach. She had washed her face and re-braided her hair and, though Mac was sure it was just from obviously hearty and possibly overzealous scrubbing of the dirt and whatnot off her face, her cheeks had a healthy rose tint to them.

Before Jen could jump to conclusions, Mac said, "The doctor just came out. She says it's looking really good."

"Oh thank god, ma'am," Jen said, letting out a deep breath that she didn't even know that she had been holding. "Thank god," she whispered again, reaching to her throat for the crucifix she had stopped wearing the day that her father told her that it was the will of god that her mother had died and that the lord had a plan. She couldn't believe in a being that planned to take the mothers of ten year old girls, couldn't believe in a god that her father set so much stock in when she was finding herself less and less able to believe in her father. But the good Reverend Coates hadn't cared, believing that his god had given up on Jen anyway, a belief that was only confirmed time and time again when she would come home with the police or, later, with a Navy Commander who was holding her in his custody.

It was only when Jen realized that she wasn't wearing her cross that she realized that during Bud's entire surgery she had been praying to the very god that she had forsaken as a little girl.

Banishing such thoughts—she got angry when she thought about her father and his god and how she supposed she now owed it to her father and his god to admit that maybe, just maybe, she had come to accept her father's god as her own once more—Jen focused on something that didn't leave her confused.

Helping the people who had helped her find a path that worked for her, who had helped her get a fresh start with a fresh slate, who had stood by her side and allowed her to stand by theirs throughout Bud's surgery despite her rank or her criminal record or any other potential objections.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir, ma'am?" Jen asked, her spine straightening when she remembered that she was in the presence of two senior commissioned officers and, despite their shared reason for being outside sickbay, she was on a completely different, and decidedly lower, level than the two officers who were sitting so close to each other on the small bench.

"No, thank you, Jen," Harm said, using her given name to let the young girl know that, for the moment at least, they were just three people who cared about Bud J Roberts Jr, that the Colonel and the Commander and the Petty Officer were taking an extended break and they were just Mac and Harm and Jen. Jen nodded, getting the message and managing a small smile in thanks.

Harm swiped at the lingering tears that were starting to make his skin itch and his free hand searched blindly for Mac's, twining their fingers together once they had found each other. Mac held on tight, the number of times she had almost lost him becoming all too clear in her mind now that her concern for Bud wasn't taking over every corner of her being.

"Are you feeling better?" Mac asked the Petty Officer, sitting upright.

Jen nodded, blushing slightly as she thought about how close she had come to vomiting on the two people who had been the first good role models she had ever had. The Commander being the man who had introduced her to some of the most amazing people she had ever known, also being the first person to truly believe in her in a long time; the Colonel having willingly opened her home to a total stranger on Christmas and having allowed that same stranger to talk out her problems in her own way, without censor or fear of repercussions.

"I can't tell you if that's because the Lieutenant is going to be alright or… the other thing. I think it's a chicken-egg kind of thing," Jen said with a small shrug.

Mac chuckled softly, the sound feeling strange after so many hours of tense and fearful silence. Her soft chuckles turned into giddy laughter of exhaustion, relief, and the million other emotions that were pushing for a release, and within a moment Jen had joined in, holding onto her stomach as she slid down the bulkhead, unable to stand any longer.

Taking in the sight of the two women he was with, Harm smiled softly, knowing that their laughter was healthier than his stoicism, but unable to find it within himself to join the pair in their reckless joy.

Too many years of searching for his father had hardened Harm, making it hard for him to allow hope to blossom within him. From the age of six—when he had been helpless to do anything but pray—to only a short time earlier, finding out that his father was dead, had been for many years already. Harm wasn't able to let go of all his tension yet, and he wouldn't be until the doctors told him that Bud was out of the woods. That he was stable and had a positive prognosis wasn't good enough.

So he tightened his grip on Mac's hand, needing her to stabilize him while he sorted through emotions and fears and thoughts and 'what ifs' that came together and beat him about like the waves had when he was lost in that storm on the night of Mac's aborted wedding.

There was still time, Harm told himself, his eyes drifting to the closed door that hid his long-time friend and one-time protégée from his sight. There was still time for all of them, he decided, and that was all that mattered.

Manic Penguin

2006