She shoots, she scores. Well, with torturing Harm, anyway. It was a nice
feeling to get one up on Harm. The look on his face when he realized he
had followed me down the hall without even thinking of grabbing his notes
was worth the half hour I spent in my office working on an ulcer trying to
figure out what to do about that kiss and us.
He, of course, did win the case, though how he won this one, I don't know. Actually, I do know.
Aggravation, thy name is Bud Roberts.
A murderer has been allowed to walk, and now I'm looking through Virginia Code to see what I can do about having the D.A. take the case. Hell if I'm going to let a murderer go free.
Really it's not much of a victory for Harm when I know he wants the bastard put away as much as I do.
I take a sip of my latte, and glance at the other one sitting on my desk. I hope Harm gets here to perform his customary gloat-after-a-win session before his latte gets cold. I went through all the trouble of ordering it for him. I can't help but smile at my thoughtfulness. Soymilk for my health-conscious partner. Yet another score for the marine. I practically own that seat next to him.
"Hey," he says wandering in. He doesn't look happy. Time to schmooze and for Sturgis to lose.
"Hey," I greet him warmly. Gloating or not, he brightens my office as much as he darkens it. "I got you something." I hand him the latte.
"What is it?" He takes it from me carefully, as though it might just start oozing some sort of bubbly, green chemical at any moment.
"It's a soy latte. I thought you might like it." I smile as he takes a sip. His face screws up into an unattractive grimace and he practically gags.
"Ugh. Oh, God, that's nasty."
I manage to suppress the sigh I'm about to heave.
"Are you always this cranky after a win?"
"Some cases you don't wanna win," He says, his face still somewhat scrunched up. Honestly I didn't think he'd find it that bad. Especially after gut-wrenching fare like his meatless meatloaf. I shudder at the thought, but fortunately Bud's entrance has attracted Harm's attention so he doesn't notice.
I'm somewhat surprised at Bud. He seems genuinely confused why Harm wasn't more thrilled with the verdict. I know Bud thinks he did a great service to the jury panel, helping them reason out the evidence. I think Harm is a little frustrated with Bud.
Harm answers Bud's questions coolly, hands the coffee back to me and disappears into the bullpen.
Bud looks at me questioningly. This time I do sigh. Neither one of us gets the vindication we want.
*******
Harm's slouched over in his office, working on some paperwork from what I can see from here by the copier. He hasn't said much since he accompanied Bud and I out to see the Lieutenant. I hope that excursion hasn't made me lose Favored Superbowl Companion status.
I should make sure he's okay.
"Hey squid," I say. He gives me a small smile as he looks up. I get the impression he knows why I'm here.
"Hey Mac," he answers easily. He continues to scribble some notes on the document on his desk.
"You feel like dinner?" Dinner's a good way to see what's up and work my charms for the Superbowl.
"I don't feel like beltway burgers, if that's what you're asking."
"No, we could go to that healthy place you always go to on the weekends. Tofu Frenzy."
He stops writing and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Really?" He remarks with casual disbelief. I nod with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. "You're really going all out for these Superbowl tickets."
"It's not for the Superbowl." He gives me a Look. "Okay, not just for the Superbowl. You're my best friend. I care about you." He gives me another Look.
"What? I do," I reply defensively. Does he really believe I'm that shallow? "So what's up with the frown, flyboy?"
"Nothing." He picks up the pen he laid down and starts scribbling again.
"Come on, Harm, with your win—okay, maybe not the win necessarily—"I amend upon a flicker of long black eyelashes and green eyes flashed at me. "But, killer seats to the Superbowl—the Superbowl, Harm—and everyone sucking up to you, it has to be a pretty good week for you and it's only Wednesday."
"It's had its highlights and downsides," he replies, a smile playing at his lips. He stares at me with an unreadable expression. I wonder what he's thinking and where the kiss in the break room falls in those two categories.
"So, marine, are you going to wager a guess as to where the tickets came from, or are you going to watch your chance at Superbowl madness slip by."
"You mean to say my efforts at convincing you I'm your number one Superbowl fan have all been for naught?"
"The latte set you back."
"It's the thought that counts," I counter. He grins one of his killer flyboy grins. "Besides, what has Sturgis done to convince you to take him?"
"Well, Sturgis had some very convincing arguments," he says matter-of- factly.
"So you're taking Sturgis?" I ask, feeling a little crestfallen. I thought that little scene in the break room would've counted for something.
"I didn't say that."
"So you're taking me?"
"I didn't say that, either."
"So, who are you taking?"
"I don't know yet."
"Take me." I try to keep the pleading note out of my voice but I don't think I succeed.
He gets up from his desk and marches over to one of his file cabinets. I stand up also and follow, and lean against the file cabinet as he searches for whatever file he needs.
"Come on, Harm, think about it. The lights. The crowd. You. Me. Football," I add quickly, afraid of how what I just said might be construed. He leans down very close to me, so close I am engulfed by that wonderful aftershave. If it's not Brut it has to be a stolen scent of heaven. I seize up at his proximity, and can only stare helplessly into his beautiful green eyes. They really are quite beautiful. I've always loved them. They say so much about him when the rest of him isn't talking. Or refusing to talk.
"Aren't you worried that if you and I go," he whispers softly, and I stiffen up a little at what's coming next—I knew we couldn't avoid all of our relationship baggage—"the Steelers may kick the Rams' six and you may not enjoy the Superbowl at all." He stands up straight again, putting a little distance between us, that damn smug grin ever present on his face. "Because if you think I'm going to let the opportunity to rub it in pass me by, you'd better think again." He takes a seat behind his desk again and waits for my response.
That arrogant bastard.
I saunter over to his chair and lean down very close to his ear, maintaining my balance with one hand on the arm of his chair, and the other on the back of his chair.
"If you actually think the Rams are going to lose this one, flyboy, maybe you should consider going home early. You're obviously not feeling very well. You'd better take care or you might not be able to attend the game. Sturgis and I may have to go in your stead." So close to his ear I'm having a hard time not taking advantage of the opportunity here. Oh, hell.
I place a light kiss on his temple and sashay out of his office.
I don't look back, but I'm pretty sure that supercilious smile is no longer on his face.
He, of course, did win the case, though how he won this one, I don't know. Actually, I do know.
Aggravation, thy name is Bud Roberts.
A murderer has been allowed to walk, and now I'm looking through Virginia Code to see what I can do about having the D.A. take the case. Hell if I'm going to let a murderer go free.
Really it's not much of a victory for Harm when I know he wants the bastard put away as much as I do.
I take a sip of my latte, and glance at the other one sitting on my desk. I hope Harm gets here to perform his customary gloat-after-a-win session before his latte gets cold. I went through all the trouble of ordering it for him. I can't help but smile at my thoughtfulness. Soymilk for my health-conscious partner. Yet another score for the marine. I practically own that seat next to him.
"Hey," he says wandering in. He doesn't look happy. Time to schmooze and for Sturgis to lose.
"Hey," I greet him warmly. Gloating or not, he brightens my office as much as he darkens it. "I got you something." I hand him the latte.
"What is it?" He takes it from me carefully, as though it might just start oozing some sort of bubbly, green chemical at any moment.
"It's a soy latte. I thought you might like it." I smile as he takes a sip. His face screws up into an unattractive grimace and he practically gags.
"Ugh. Oh, God, that's nasty."
I manage to suppress the sigh I'm about to heave.
"Are you always this cranky after a win?"
"Some cases you don't wanna win," He says, his face still somewhat scrunched up. Honestly I didn't think he'd find it that bad. Especially after gut-wrenching fare like his meatless meatloaf. I shudder at the thought, but fortunately Bud's entrance has attracted Harm's attention so he doesn't notice.
I'm somewhat surprised at Bud. He seems genuinely confused why Harm wasn't more thrilled with the verdict. I know Bud thinks he did a great service to the jury panel, helping them reason out the evidence. I think Harm is a little frustrated with Bud.
Harm answers Bud's questions coolly, hands the coffee back to me and disappears into the bullpen.
Bud looks at me questioningly. This time I do sigh. Neither one of us gets the vindication we want.
*******
Harm's slouched over in his office, working on some paperwork from what I can see from here by the copier. He hasn't said much since he accompanied Bud and I out to see the Lieutenant. I hope that excursion hasn't made me lose Favored Superbowl Companion status.
I should make sure he's okay.
"Hey squid," I say. He gives me a small smile as he looks up. I get the impression he knows why I'm here.
"Hey Mac," he answers easily. He continues to scribble some notes on the document on his desk.
"You feel like dinner?" Dinner's a good way to see what's up and work my charms for the Superbowl.
"I don't feel like beltway burgers, if that's what you're asking."
"No, we could go to that healthy place you always go to on the weekends. Tofu Frenzy."
He stops writing and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Really?" He remarks with casual disbelief. I nod with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. "You're really going all out for these Superbowl tickets."
"It's not for the Superbowl." He gives me a Look. "Okay, not just for the Superbowl. You're my best friend. I care about you." He gives me another Look.
"What? I do," I reply defensively. Does he really believe I'm that shallow? "So what's up with the frown, flyboy?"
"Nothing." He picks up the pen he laid down and starts scribbling again.
"Come on, Harm, with your win—okay, maybe not the win necessarily—"I amend upon a flicker of long black eyelashes and green eyes flashed at me. "But, killer seats to the Superbowl—the Superbowl, Harm—and everyone sucking up to you, it has to be a pretty good week for you and it's only Wednesday."
"It's had its highlights and downsides," he replies, a smile playing at his lips. He stares at me with an unreadable expression. I wonder what he's thinking and where the kiss in the break room falls in those two categories.
"So, marine, are you going to wager a guess as to where the tickets came from, or are you going to watch your chance at Superbowl madness slip by."
"You mean to say my efforts at convincing you I'm your number one Superbowl fan have all been for naught?"
"The latte set you back."
"It's the thought that counts," I counter. He grins one of his killer flyboy grins. "Besides, what has Sturgis done to convince you to take him?"
"Well, Sturgis had some very convincing arguments," he says matter-of- factly.
"So you're taking Sturgis?" I ask, feeling a little crestfallen. I thought that little scene in the break room would've counted for something.
"I didn't say that."
"So you're taking me?"
"I didn't say that, either."
"So, who are you taking?"
"I don't know yet."
"Take me." I try to keep the pleading note out of my voice but I don't think I succeed.
He gets up from his desk and marches over to one of his file cabinets. I stand up also and follow, and lean against the file cabinet as he searches for whatever file he needs.
"Come on, Harm, think about it. The lights. The crowd. You. Me. Football," I add quickly, afraid of how what I just said might be construed. He leans down very close to me, so close I am engulfed by that wonderful aftershave. If it's not Brut it has to be a stolen scent of heaven. I seize up at his proximity, and can only stare helplessly into his beautiful green eyes. They really are quite beautiful. I've always loved them. They say so much about him when the rest of him isn't talking. Or refusing to talk.
"Aren't you worried that if you and I go," he whispers softly, and I stiffen up a little at what's coming next—I knew we couldn't avoid all of our relationship baggage—"the Steelers may kick the Rams' six and you may not enjoy the Superbowl at all." He stands up straight again, putting a little distance between us, that damn smug grin ever present on his face. "Because if you think I'm going to let the opportunity to rub it in pass me by, you'd better think again." He takes a seat behind his desk again and waits for my response.
That arrogant bastard.
I saunter over to his chair and lean down very close to his ear, maintaining my balance with one hand on the arm of his chair, and the other on the back of his chair.
"If you actually think the Rams are going to lose this one, flyboy, maybe you should consider going home early. You're obviously not feeling very well. You'd better take care or you might not be able to attend the game. Sturgis and I may have to go in your stead." So close to his ear I'm having a hard time not taking advantage of the opportunity here. Oh, hell.
I place a light kiss on his temple and sashay out of his office.
I don't look back, but I'm pretty sure that supercilious smile is no longer on his face.