Disclaimer: Characters, show, etc are not mine.
A/N: Not a particularly light story, but I thought it would be an interesting experience to write about anger. The Family Advocacy Program does exist, although perhaps not in the exact form it assumes in this story. Any mistakes/inaccuracies are mine. The reference to Mac carrying her past around with her comes from the season 2 episode 'Rendezvous' (the one where Mac's client reminds her of her father). This is not a sequel to 'First Time', but that fic is referred to. I am inclined to think that my stories to date could fit in the same 'universe', i.e. one where H/M are (a) trying to figure it out, (b) not intent on destroying each other through emotional immaturity. Please note that the story contains one really bad word (can't be angry and not swear, right?)
Grace
Mac shut the front door to her apartment and leaned back against it. She could not remember how she had made it back home. She could not remember how she had made it out of the Admiral's office without embarrassing herself and the Corps. She could not remember much of anything the Admiral had said beyond the words she felt would be ingrained in her brain until the day she was buried under six feet of dirt and a lifetime of recriminations. She did, however, clearly remember the anger she had felt.
Her fists clenched once again at her side, just as they had in his office when the Admiral had informed her of a call he had received from the DC Police. Linda and Lucy Miles had been found dead in their home, preliminary report indicating multiple contusions, internal bleeding… Mac forced her eyes shut, focused on her breathing. Beaten to death, really, once you got down to brass tacks. They were both beaten, mercilessly, and they both died because of it. Gunnery Sergeant Jeffrey Miles was UA.
"I'm informing you, Colonel, because you consulted with a Family Advocacy Program counsellor," the Admiral searched the file in his hand, "Jane Wodehouse, about the Miles family situation." He had looked at her then, over his reading glasses. She was too busy registering his words to process the appraising look in his eyes. "The DC Police were more than happy to hand the investigation over to NCIS. With Miles UA, the investigation could take awhile and the outcome can only be guessed at."
"JAG will not get the case?" The question had been asked more out of reflex than anything else. The shock from receiving the news had not yet worn off. She remembered speaking with the counsellor from FAP. Jane Wodehouse... Her thoughts were interrupted when she realized the Admiral was addressing her, something about unknown outcomes and procedural requirements. She had forced her attention back to him.
"…Wodehouse will be turning over her files to NCIS. They may want to interview you as well, though I doubt your part in the affair would contribute to apprehending the suspect. Did you keep any records of your conversation?"
"No, Sir. From what Ms. Wodehouse told me of the situation – the evidence collected, witnesses interviewed, Mrs. Miles had recanted her initial allegations – it was highly doubtful that Miles could be prosecuted for domestic abuse. I could not have recommended such a course to Miles' CO, were I to be asked. I told her as much, Sir. She felt strongly that something needed to be done but I couldn't offer her any recourse." As the words formed on her tongue, Mac had felt that familiar but long-forgotten anger begin its slow simmer in her gut. She knew what would happen and she had to leave before it did. Before the heavy boil in the pit of her stomach erupted and pulsed through her veins, searing any semblance of control. Before it saturated her pores and irradiated from her skin like angry heat off a scorching sidewalk, blurring the sense of decorum she had fought for along with her uniform. She had to leave his office.
She had struggled to control the anger until she was safely away from JAG HQ. Away from the Admiral and his fatherly concern. Away from Harm. She couldn't face his questions. She couldn't face his caring. Not right now, when anger was all she had to keep her from shattering. What had she done? She remembered the last time she had felt this kind of fury. It had been years since she had felt it so acutely and only recently had she stopped feeling it as anything but the blunt edge of a dull blade. It was the same anger she had used to keep sadness and guilt from sinking its ruthless fangs into her heart. The same anger she had fanned until a flame of resentment had roared into an unmanageable blaze of self-loathing. And then she needed to forget. Forget the feelings of inadequacy that her mother had left her with, forget that she deserved to be stuck with her father since they were both good for nothing. So she drank.
Mac opened her eyes and stared into her darkened, empty apartment. She would not drink. She had come so far. Run. She would go for a run.
Mac forcefully pushed herself off her front door and went to her bedroom. She pulled open her dresser drawers. She would run and that would help her forget. She dug fervently through her drawers, where the hell were her running shorts, she'd just worn them this morning. Help her forget that horrible conversation. Finally, she found her shorts. She grabbed them and a t-shirt and began changing, ripping her uniform off of her. Help her forget the two bodies in the morgue. She heard her cell phone – that was the fifth time since she left JAG – and pointedly ignored it. She savagely pulled on her running clothes. She had to hurry or Harm might come over before she left for her run. She could not face him. She did not want to talk about this. With anyone.
As she was lacing up her running shoes, Mac heard a knock on her front door. She froze, swearing under her breath. The minutes wasted weeding through thatches of memory had given Harm the time he needed to catch up to her. She would ignore him. She did not need him to talk to. She did not need him to listen to her troubles and offer his reasonable advice. She did not need his – her mind choked on the word – love. Deep down she knew what he felt for her though he had not yet said it in as many words. And she knew she could not do this now when she deserved so much less than he was willing to give her.
The knocking on her door increased in pace and volume. He was banging on the door, now. A shrill ring pierced through her forced silence, he was also calling her cell phone. All of a sudden, her words to Jane Wodehouse came rushing back to her, "I'm afraid that under the circumstances, there is no way to mount a credible case. I would conclude that abuse is suspected, pending further investigation. The family can be kept safe during the investigation period…"
Safe, indeed. She should have kept an eye on the case, on them. She should have followed up instead of hiding behind dry words and legalese. She could have kept a mother and daughter from being killed. A family from being destroyed. Unlike anyone had done for her family. Who had ignored her mother's cries for help because of a heavy workload? Because of a new boyfriend? The banging on the door was suddenly silenced and Mac debated what to do. She wished she had a fire escape. She would wait a few minutes, maybe Harm would leave. She realized that she was supposed to meet him for dinner. Well, she was hardly good company at the moment.
She would wait 15 minutes, then go. She needed to get out of here, to feel her feet pound the pavement, to feel the cool air chill her heated skin, to forget herself. She wondered if people who weren't battling alcoholism had an easier time of dealing with anger, if they had to invest less energy in taming a rage without the paralyzing craving for alcohol demanding attention. She had had the same thoughts years ago in those glaring moments after the numbness had left her, when her skin felt so tight she had to remind herself to breath, before her next drink dulled the edges of introspection. Back then, she had succumbed to the craving. Those were not years she cared to remember. Drink to forget. And that had cost Eddie his life.
Eddie. He had been a friend, in his own way. And she had accepted his friendship because no one else wanted her. Well, Chris had, but his wanting had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with desires and craving. And she had been on much better terms with cravings than with love back then. She knew that regardless of what life brought her, no one could take Eddie's spot in her heart and mind. He had offered her acceptance, a home, when she had none. They were both so flawed that it seemed apt. No, she would not drink now and she would not drag someone else into her web of self-loathing and neediness.
Mac realized that she had been standing on the same spot by the foot of her bed, unmoving, ever since Harm had begun knocking at her door. It had been just over 16 minutes. She made her way towards the door and grabbed her keys from the floor where she discarded them earlier.
"Mac?" Damn it. He was still outside. He must have heard her. She did not want to face him.
"Open up, Mac." Might as well get this over with, she thought, anger blurring the edges of her vision. 6PM on a Thursday is as good a time as any to destroy a friendship and whatever else it is we have. She squared her shoulders and opened the door.
Harm, for his part, felt nothing but sheer relief as the door swung open. He had seen her leave the office as if the very hounds of hell were on her trail. When the Admiral had emerged from his office looking more worried than Harm had seen him in awhile, Harm knew something was amiss.
"We were supposed to meet for dinner, but you left the office in such a rush…" he faltered at the barely concealed look of hostility on her face.
"Harm. Please. I can't do this right now. I need some time." She was struggling to suppress the rage.
"Alright. That's fine. Can I have five minutes? Just five. I just -"
She couldn't do this anymore. Her next words spewed out on a wave of shouting and anger that surprised them both. "What the hell, Harm! I just need some time! Is that too much to ask for? I have to deal with – with this! And no, you can't help and no I don't want your help! I have dealt with this for years without you and your suddenly wanting to fuck me is not going to get me to be some damsel in distress pandering to your hero syndrome! Leave!" It was his fault, after all. Making her think she was more than she was. Offering her his friendship. Giving her a sense of belonging. Buying a tv. If he hadn't done it, she would still have had the anger she had worked so long to maintain. She would still have a defence against the sadness and feelings of failure that clawed at her tattered heart.
Before she could slam the door shut on him, Harm put his hand out to stop her. She saw him watching her with caution and wariness like a gamekeeper would some feral animal. She noted how he took a tentative step inside her apartment, his eyes all the while asking her permission. And all of a sudden she felt incredibly inadequate.
"Oh, God, Harm. I'm so sorry." As the words of apology hovered in the air between them, she flashed to an image of her mother, asking her father's forgiveness for causing him to lose his temper. Would she never break free of the bonds of memory?
"Talk to me, Mac. You left so suddenly…" he trailed off, studying her face for some reaction.
There was something in the tone of his voice that caused Mac's anger to ebb. No one but Harm had ever spoken to her in this way: caring and affectionate, warm and steady. She could feel him wrap himself around her. It reminded her of warm milk and a soft blanket, a hug. She didn't deserve this.
"Jeffrey Miles killed his wife and daughter. He's gone UA."
Recognition dawned on his face and suddenly transformed into a look of determination. "This has nothing to do with you, Mac."
She turned away from him, the anger crashing in waves into her withering control. It had so much to do with her, couldn't he see?
"I told the FAP counsellor it was, at best, a case of suspected abuse. Not substantiated. I didn't follow up because," she paused, sharpening her next words on the edges of her teeth before spitting them out, "I was too busy. With work." She turned to face him, "with you."
He had never seen that look in her eyes before – anger and hatred and a sadness so deep he thought he would drown in it. "Mac-"
She interrupted him, refusing his attempt to appease her anger. "I was them, Harm! I was all those people who were too blind and busy and involved in their own lives to see a cry for help when it stared them in the face, black and blue and bleeding! I'm every single person who never helped my mother!" She was shaking with emotion, though neither could tell if the emotion was anger or grief or guilt.
While she had been speaking, Harm had slowly been approaching her. By the time she finished and while she fought to get her shaking and erratic breaths under control, he was close enough to put his hands firmly on her shoulders. Mac seemed to deflate and momentarily shut her eyes under his touch. When she re-opened them, she was looking directly at him.
"I just need to be alone with this. I'll be fine. It just comes and goes in phases. I told you once that I always carry the past around, didn't I? Some days it weighs a lot more than others."
Harm nodded carefully, acknowledging only the second part of her statement. "You've been alone with it for far too long, Mac. If you want some time, that's fine. I'll go. But you're not alone."
She struggled to make him see. "I feel so...inadequate, Harm." At his look of confusion, she elaborated, "It's been years. Years. And still…" She studied expression on his face. He looked like he was trying to walk on eggshells around her, but it was the worry darkening his irises that caused the last shreds of her anger to dissipate. Somewhere deep inside of her, she knew she could not turn him away. She felt the words she had hurled at him coat her throat with grit. How could she? Knowing what he meant to her. What she meant to him. "I didn't mean what I said, earlier, about the-"
"You don't need to explain, Mac. You were angry, I was handy."
"Doesn't make it right."
"Apology accepted."
They smiled at each other, he warmly, she timidly. He noted that the sadness still lingered in her eyes. She saw the familiar spark flicker in his.
"Going for a run?" Harm asked, running his gaze along her short-clad figure. He decided not to comment on the fact that one shoe was untied.
Mac nodded. "Was going to go. If you…that is…" she took a breath and told herself to suck it up. "Would you like to have dinner with me instead?"
He felt his heart swell in his chest and remembered Bud telling him about the life phases of stars. How they would expand to incredible sizes before going supernova and bursting into clouds of stardust and the very elements that were essential for life. It was interesting, he thought, that the major phases of their still embryonic relationship had so far occurred after moments of personal crisis. Perhaps that was normal, not that he and Mac did much the normal way. What would it be to discover love on a quiet night by firelight instead of on the receiving end of a fiery lambast? He did not think he cared to find out. "Nothing could sound more appealing, sweetheart," he waited with bated breath for her reaction.
Well, that was new. She raised an eyebrow even as she felt a thick, sweet liquid flood her heart, "'sweetheart'?"
He shrugged. "Thought I'd give it a try. Saw some guy use it on that new tv of mine."
The relief that coursed through her made her feel like she was floating. She would forever be surprised, she knew, that he was as able to say the right thing as he was the wrong thing. "You watched tv without me?"
Harm shook his head in amusement. She actually managed to make that innocuous sentence sound dirty.
"Well," she continued, enjoying his reaction, "did he get some action?"
"It was a cliff-hanger." He was amused, yes, but there was something else in his eyes. She could have sworn it was anticipation. It was mesmerising.
"Never liked those." She took a step closer to him and placed her hands on his waist.
"Me neither." He ran his finger along her cheekbone, down the column of her neck.
"Harm?"
"Hmm?" he was watching his finger trace her collarbone.
"I love you." Her words were delicate as a butterfly's wings. She felt his finger stop its ministrations; she saw his eyes rise to meet hers.
"Mac." Her name came out on the breath of a whisper, "Mac."
She felt his warm arms encircle her. She watched him lower his head, felt his lips lightly caress hers, felt him once again wrap her in the warm cocoon of his love. She fell into his kiss thinking that now, all these years later, she was finally on much better terms with love then she was with cravings.