Chapter 2: He Misses Them

Saturday, August 18, 2007 0830 HRS

Captain Harmon Rabb, Junior's Office; London England

The Force Judge Advocate General pinches the bridge of his nose in a fruitless attempt to fend off an approaching headache. He is in a bad mood. Outside his office, in a bullpen somewhat smaller, but not terribly unlike the bullpen at JAG headquarters in DC, he can hear, or rather almost feel, the low murmur of discord between two of his senior officers. He had thought he would have the place to himself. Don't they have lives of their own? It is Saturday for God's sake!

He knows he is being unreasonable. He has good officers under his command. Two of which have just come into the office on Saturday to do trial prep for an upcoming case on Monday.

Sadly though, those two officers are always at each other's throats and not in the "friendly competition" kind of way. No, not the waytheyused to be.

Damn it! Why did everything always have to remind him of her? Sure, they squabbled, bickered, debated, and vehemently discussed things; usually because each one of them had their own idea about a different way to arrive at the same place. They weren't frequently hateful toward one another though. That, while not unheard of, was a very rare occurrence for them.

No, between his subordinates, he dealt with thinly veiled outright animosity that some might call homicidal! He worried one day they would come to blows and he would be out, not one but two good officers, having no choice but to send them each to opposite hemispheres of the globe.

He got up from the chair behind his desk, crossed the room, and shut the door with a little more force than he had intended. The resulting noise effectively prevented any hushed verbal hint of strife from permeating his office, but it did nothing to alleviate the tension either in the air or inside his head.

Who was he kidding? Yes, they had long ago given up heated verbal battles, but he would hand in his gold wings and relinquish his treasured flight status right this very minute for just one chance to have a good, loud, old fashioned, knockdown drag out with her. He hated fighting with her! She was usually the more competitive of the two; usually being the operative word. This was compounded by the fact that oftentimes he hadn't intended to start a disagreement in the first place. It was just his dumb luck to frequently stumble into the mine field of her emotions. Except for the last time. The last time he'd seen warning signs ahead. Somewhere in his mind he had heard the little voice that told him to slam on the brakes, but his heart just wouldn't listen to logic. His heart wanted someone, no not just someone…her… not just to understand, but to feel as bad as he felt. He had no right to do it. He knew that, but he'd done it anyway and when it was done the woman who had brought so much never-before-heard music into his life, so much beautiful noise, had simply walked away from him with nothing more than a barely audible whisper.

Yes, after this two-year-long cold war with its unbearable silence, he would let her say anything she wanted. She could scream, hurl whatever horrible accusation she deemed worthy at him if only she would pick up the phone, answer an e-mail, or send a damn Christmas card!

But he has no right to hold that against her either when he hasn't bothered to do any of those things himself.

To make matters worse, not only has he intimidated his subordinates into silence, but he feels his mood worsening because it is raining again. It had been raining the first time he set foot in London two years ago. He is so sick of London weather! He is sick of all the rain and most of all he is sick of himself! But, does it have to rain nearly every damn day? Even the rain makes him think of her after the bizarre events several years ago when the Admiral's chair fell out from under him. He grimaces at the memory; at least A.J. Chegwidden had managed to be gruff but genial. He is becoming an irascible old horse's ass and he knows it.

He looks at the photo of Mattie on his desk. It's a candid snapshot taken on the spur of the moment in his old loft. She was leaning on her elbows against the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area smiling just after rolling her eyes at him. He couldn't remember what he'd done that time in particular to be the beneficiary of that look, but he was still familiar with it; even after these two lonely years it was still fresh in his mind. It should be. He'd seen it often enough when she was still with him. He misses the girl who is his daughter in every way that matters. He can see her laughing at him in the photo. He can hear her too; Mattie gently shaming him for his current behavior. "Duh, Harm, I know you miss me. You're supposed to miss me." she tells him with her usual spunk. "There's nothing you can do about missing me, but missing her is all your fault… And it's just plain stupid too!"

He groans aloud at his own thoughts. His head is throbbing now and he almost turns away from the girl's photograph; the hollow ache in his heart threatening to overtake him once more.

He has two choices that will make him feel better. The easier way is to walk out of his office bellowing at his two quarrelsome senior staff to pack it in and go home for the rest of the weekend before he busts them each down to former ranks. The infinitely harder, but undoubtedly more effective, way will be to get off his six and fix the mess he made of things two years ago.

Mattie's picture continues to laugh at him. "Yeah, Harm! Go fix it!"

God, how he misses them. He misses them both.