Disclaimer: Not mine.
Squatter – Part 2
Sharing
JAG HQ
Friday
1700 Local
Mac boarded the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. Harm had been busy poring over a file at his desk when she'd tried to make her escape from the office. He'd still somehow managed to look up right as she was locking up her office, and raise a questioning eyebrow at her. Caught in the act. So she'd made a detour by his office, knowing full well that he was still upset from last night. At least she'd figured out a way to make it up to him.
Hopefully, it'd be enough to get things back to the status quo between them. She didn't think she'd make it through to Monday if he kept giving her the cold shoulder as he'd done that morning when she'd returned from her jog. She supposed she couldn't really blame him. But she wished he'd just stop asking her about what was troubling her. She would not talk to him about it. She couldn't.
So she'd stuck her head into his office and let him know she was heading home. He said he'd be at least another hour.
It was perfect for her purposes. Just enough time to stop by the grocery store and buy the necessary ingredients to cook dinner. She'd decided after a silent breakfast of sitting across from him at her kitchen table that she would cook dinner to make amends. Part of her wanted some peace and part of her just wanted to be his friend again. Maybe that was the key to dispelling the guilt that would take up residence under her skin whenever they were in the same room. After all, she'd never felt uncomfortable around him when they were on good terms as friends.
Her grandmother always used to say that food was the language of the soul, that every time you made a meal, you shared a part of yourself. She'd never again be able to share some parts of herself with him, but she could share her friendship. The two were not mutually exclusive, and the sooner he settled for the latter, the sooner they could move beyond this impasse.
--
Mac's Apartment
Friday
1850 Local
Mac heard the front door open. Her heart began pounding in her chest. She swallowed and took a calming breath. Good god, she was nervous. She stared at the timer over the stove. Almost done. She wiped her hands over her apron in a nervous gesture. She hadn't made this dish in ages. And she'd never fed Harm a homemade meal. Mac took another deep breath; she was hell bent on not ruining this evening. Tonight was about making amends for last night, and she would not mess this up.
"Wow, Mac. It smells incredible in here." Harm stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb, watching her. Much as she had watched him last night, she realized.
"Thanks," she leaned against the counter and tried to sound casual, knowing it was a wasted effort. She was feeling much too nervous.
"Did you cook dinner?" His tone was incredulous and, she thought, wary. That was insulting. She'd slaved over an oven for an hour and he was wary? The gall.
"Yes, Harm. I cooked dinner," she arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms, daring him to pass a stupid comment.
He stared at her for a moment before walking over to the trashcan, lifting the lid and peering inside. He shrugged and then began opening each of her cupboards, glancing inside.
"What on earth are you doing?" She watched him as he searched her kitchen.
"Looking for the take-out containers," he said casually as he opened the cupboard beside her.
"That's priceless, Hardy." She slapped his shoulder. She realized that they'd slipped into their age-old light-hearted banter. The familiarity was appealing.
"I've always thought I was more of a Laurel," his grin was unrepentant. "Seriously, Mac," he continued, "I've never tasted your home-cooked food before."
"Who said you could have any?" She groused. He laughed in response and she studied him carefully. She could not remember the last time he had laughed when she was the only other person in the room. She turned her attention back to the pan on the stove and inhaled deeply, hoping the aroma would drown out the sudden onslaught of guilt.
"What are you making?"
"Faisinjan. Persian dish. Chicken in walnuts and pomegranate. It's my grandmother's recipe. And don't worry." She waved her wooden spoon at him. "I used organic, grain-fed chicken. You've hammered in your aversion to factory farmed meat."
"How did you –" he suddenly stopped and Mac glanced at him, confused momentarily by his hesitation.
"The butcher gave me his verbal assurance," she teased.
"No, not that. The recipe." He still sounded hesitant.
"What?" He was watching her so intently, that she tripped over her thoughts. It took a moment for his meaning to sink in.
"Oh. You mean how did I get the recipe?" She turned her attention back to the chicken. "Well, my mom didn't take her cooking notebooks when she left. She had all of my grandmother's recipes written down by hand. My dad didn't like most of the Persian stuff. I guess it can be an acquired taste, what with the saffron and fruits and nuts. Anyways, I took them with me when I went to the house for the last time, just before boot camp, while he was at work." She paused, watching the steam rise from the pan. "I loved my grandmother. The smell of saffron on rice always reminds me of her."
"You never talk much about her," his tone was warm.
Mac shrugged slightly. She shook herself from her thoughts and looked at him. His eyes matched the tone of his voice: tender and admiring and filled with--
"You should go change," she said quickly. "Dinner in ten."
He watched her for a moment longer before pushing himself off the door jamb and heading to the bedroom.
Twelve minutes and thirteen seconds – squids had no appreciation for promptness – Mac placed the dish in the centre of the table with a flourish. She'd made a conscious decision not to let what had happened in the kitchen affect her – maybe that would give Harm a hint. It helped that cooking had been surprisingly therapeutic. In fact, she felt just a little giddy that she'd cooked this meal, and just a little comforted at seeing her grandmother's familiar scrawl in the old notebooks. She almost felt ... normal.
"Admire the presentation, please," she instructed and waited patiently for him to comply. She was going to put them both at ease, and make up for last night's awkward dinner.
"Wow, Mac," he began, in a surprisingly sincere tone, "That looks almost as good as it smells."
"Almost?" She cocked her head to the side and lifted one eyebrow.
He cleared his throat, grinned, and tried again. "Wow, Mac. That looks fantastic. And," he inhaled deeply through his nose, "It smells delicious."
"Why thank you, Harm. How kind of you to say." She spooned the rice and chicken onto his plate, rather unsteadily. Was her hand shaking? What the hell. Surely, she wasn't that nervous. Just because this was the first time Harm would be tasting food made by her hand ... Oh hell, who was she kidding. She was very nervous. She hadn't felt this nervous in a long time. She was a Marine, for god's sake, had been in combat situations. She hoped she wasn't too nervous to eat. This was, after all, one of her favourite dishes, and for the first time in a long time she was actually hungry.
"You're making me nervous, Mac." He looked up at her. She realized that she was standing right by his shoulder.
"I'm making you nervous? You've got to be kidding me." She mumbled. She marched around the table and sat down.
"I can't eat with you staring at me like that," his grin was almost diabolical. The jerk was teasing her, she realized. Something close to happiness nestled in her heart. Immediately, alarm bells sounded in her head. She wanted to ignore the alarm bells, just this once. She knew what she was doing. She was being his friend. That was all.
"Just take a damn bite, Harm, and tell me what you think." For good measure, she continued staring at him.
"Come on, now, Mac. Is that any way to treat your houseguest?" If this was a nineteenth century melodrama, he would've been twirling his too-thin moustache.
"Harm!" He could be so exasperating.
"Alright, alright. What is it called, again? Far-, Farin-"
"Faisinjan." She laughed at his difficulty.
"Faisinjan. Hey, now, it's not that funny," he warned, laughing himself.
"Could you taste it, already? The suspense is killing me," she wheedled.
"Mac." The warmth in his tone brought her eyes to his. "I'm sure it tastes great."
"Harm." She mimicked his tone with a teasing sarcasm. "Just take a bite."
He cut a piece of chicken with his knife, and picked up a healthy forkful. He winked at her before putting the forkful in his mouth.
She was on pins and needles, carefully watching his face for any kind of reaction.
He closed his eyes and moaned blissfully. Mac clapped her hands together, grinning like the proverbial cat.
"You like it?"
"Oumf ffmf phmf." He opened his eyes and nodded enthusiastically.
She laughed delightedly. That was exactly how she remembered it tasting. Thank god it turned out well. Her Mamani could rest in peace. Mac happily served herself a plateful of her grandmother's specialty.
"This is incredible! I can't believe you made this." He was actually gushing. He never gushed.
"Gee, thanks, Harm. Is that any way to treat your host?" She took her first bite and had pretty much the same reaction as Harm had. Damn. This was good. She should cook more often.
"You should cook more often," he volunteered between bites.
She nodded, but continued eating in favour of responding.
"How often do you cook?" He picked up another large forkful and ate it.
She shrugged as she speared a piece of chicken with her fork.
"I thought you never cooked," he persisted.
She finished chewing and surrendered to the inevitable conversation.
"Sometimes. When the mood strikes." When she wanted to be reminded of her grandmother. Sometimes when she thought of Uncle Matt. He was a meat and potatoes kind of guy; but she loved meat and potatoes so it worked out well. She had also cooked up a veritable feast right after things ended with Clay, just to keep from thinking about how things had ended with Clay. It took her a week and a half to finish the food. Honestly, however, that spurt had been a one-time thing and she hadn't cooked again until tonight. It was just easier to heat up a can of whatever.
"I haven't made this particular dish in ages," she added, hopefully before he realized that she'd been lost in thought.
"When was the last time?" He was busy cutting away at the chicken on his plate, his tone conversational.
"I may have cooked it for Chloe once. But I think the last time was on my birthday, last year. It's one of my favourite dishes. I save it, really, odd as that sounds." She looked up to see that he had stopped eating. She frowned, was something wrong with the food? "Is-"
"I missed your birthday," he was looking right at her, remorse darkening his expression, making him look older.
Not now. He couldn't bring this up now. They'd been doing so well.
"Don't worry about it. Hey, your glass is empty. Water?" She grabbed his glass and headed for the sink without waiting for his reply.
She leaned against the counter as she filled their glasses with water. Things would be so much easier if he stopped with the probing questions and the meaningful remarks. She needed to find a way to stop him from doing that. Deflections would only work for so long. Pulling him into the old rhythm of their banter might work – it had almost been working so far. She'd keep at it. Keep it light.
Mac turned off the faucet and turned towards the table, glasses in hand. Harm was watching her intently. She faltered in her step, the room seemed to close in on her. Regroup, Marine. She took a deep breath and walked back to the table. She placed his glass beside his plate and offered him a smile.
"You'd better eat up, Squid," she teased, "I can guarantee there won't be leftovers and who knows when I'll cook again." She dug into the food on her own plate, ignoring his penetrating stare.
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
"Hey, Mac." He sounded casual, almost too casual.
"Yeah?" Mac looked up at him, unable to breathe, fork poised in midair. Please don't ask a probing question, she begged silently. Please don't.
"You up for a movie after dinner?"
"Sure." She exhaled heavily. This, she could deal with. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well," he began in that same casual tone. "We could go to the video store. Spend ten minutes picking movies, and twenty arguing over our choices before agreeing on one neither of us wants to watch."
She stared at him, unsure as to whether he was kidding or throwing a snide remark swathed in sarcasm. He seemed to be kidding. She could work with that.
"Come on. I'll throw in a packet of peanut M&Ms." He offered her a charming smile that set them firmly back on familiar ground. Mac relaxed. She could definitely deal with this.
She arched an eyebrow in challenge, knowing she could get a better offer out of him.
"And a packet of Sour Patches." He crossed his arms and assumed his negotiator's stance.
She held her ground, silent.
"Alright. Fine," he conceded, "I'll make the popcorn, too."
"Microwave or stove top?"
"What do you take me for?" He raised a hand to his heart, his face contorted in mock horror. "Stove top, of course. That microwave stuff will kill you."
"Now, how could I refuse an offer like that?" Victory. Silence was definitely a weapon when it came to negotiating with Harm.
"You're not going to make me watch some sappy chick-flick, are you?" He asked, once again enthusiastically attacking the chicken on his plate. Making dinner would definitely qualify as her first big victory of the day. She hadn't felt this pleased about something in far too long.
"Nah," she said nonchalantly, trying to hide her giddiness. "I'm not in the mood for Top Gun tonight."
"Funny, Marine."
--
Mac's Apartment
Friday
2313 Local
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His attention was on the movie. She watched the light from the screen flash across his face as he rested casually on her couch. He seemed comfortable. The thought, foolishly, made her happy. She clamped down on the feeling immediately.
She sighed quietly and turned her gaze back to the man and woman on the screen, and watched as they tried to diffuse a bomb. She would bet her membership at the Smithsonian that not only would they succeed, but celebrate their success with a spontaneous congratulatory kiss. She would also bet that they would kiss as the credits rolled. Hollywood really did do its best to lull viewers into the false security of celluloid-thin happy endings. One kiss after an adrenaline high did not a successful long-term relationship make. She knew this from experience. Twice over. Secretly, though, she envied the characters for wrapping up in two hours what she couldn't in 36 years. She wished she could script her own life. The credits would have rolled right after she pulled Harm onto that Helo over the deserts of Arizona.
