***
They were getting really good at this, these stilted conversations that contained no depth. Sometimes it was frustrating, he was an expert at evading personal inquiries and there were times she felt she knew less about him now then she did before. While he rarely was so direct to completely disregard any of her questions, many of his answers were vague and he seemed particularly fond of the single word reply.
-What are you reading? -Newspaper. -How are you doing? -Fine. -How's the weather? -Cold. -Would you like some coffee? -Yes. -Do you want me to change the channel? –No.
Though their conversations were hardly earth shattering, Mac found their small talk inexplicably soothing and looked forward to the random moments he would appear out of thin air and walk in on her reading or watching TV, to noiselessly sit down and keep her company. He seemed to understand her need for companionship and the time they spent together was for the most part, pleasant. Quickly they settled in an odd routine that confused with its unexpected easiness.
Setting the table with knives and forks, she waited for Webb to unpack their dinner.
"Thank god for restaurants or we'd both starve," he commented as he walked in the dining room with two plates of steaming food.
"I can cook," she feebly volunteered, figuring she should at least posture as a considerate guest for the duration of her stay.
Webb stared at her oddly, the corner of his mouth rising in bemusement. "No you can't."
She would have rebutted but he was right and she was hungry, so she sat down and started shoveling rice in her mouth. After her first bite, she paused and looked at him in defiance. "I can cook." She insisted.
There was a pained expression on Webb's face as he considered the idea. "Please don't."
Mac laughed and shook her head in mock exasperation. "Do you have to be so mordant?"
He shrugged, cutting his chicken with a robotic precision. "Everyone needs a hobby."
"And you excel at yours," she answered.
"I do what I can."
Sitting at the table sharing dinner and interchanging idle conversation poking fun at the other, Mac was suddenly struck by how cozy they must have looked. The thought tickled her head and she suddenly pictured them as a married couple.
Mr. and Mrs. Dysfunction, they'd be called. Her inherently suspicious, cynical CIA spy husband and his needy, emotionally stunted, marine lawyer wife- what a pair they would make. Saving the world by day and eating take out by night.
She must have been considering the subject for some time for Webb to cut in and nod at the half empty plate before her. "Are you finished?"
Shaking the thoughts of spies, lawyers and marriage out of her head, she attacked her food with a renewed vigor. "I'm a marine, Webb. We don't leave our food behind."
Busy devouring her food, she barely caught the rare unguarded smile on Webb's face as he looked at her with a startled affection.
***
The constant inactivity in the house was enough to disturb the dead. In every room she crept, the virtual stillness attacked her, choking her brain with the underlying tension heavily saturating the stagnant air in the empty house.
It had been like this for days since mother left, her father locked alone in his bedroom keeping company with Jack Daniel to drink away his sorrows. The few times she saw him were the tense minutes he ran out of the house, ignoring the large brown eyes silently watching as he tore recklessly out of the driveway, bringing back only more mind numbing liquid.
After two days she gathered her courage, squared her shoulders resolutely and ended up in front of his room. Her first rap against his door was barely loud enough to rouse him out of his drunken stupor. Only silence greeted her and cringing, she tried again, this time her hand curled in a tight ball, a little harder, steadier.
There was a small thud then the dull thumps of his erratic footsteps as he stumbled towards the door. A sudden attack of anxiety stole her breath as she heard the small resounding click of his lock being turned. Gritting her teeth she swallowed nervously and crushed the apprehension in her stomach to look up at her father's expectant face.
His eyes were dead, the face that peered down at her a mixture of belligerence and confusion as he tried to process her image in his inebriated mind.
"Dad?"
Staring at her for a moment, he frowned. "Sarah?" Her name on his lips sounded heart wrenchingly small, foreign.
She wanted to scream at him, tell him it was his fault. He did this, he deserved it. But there was a deep unbearable ache in her soul that cried for the shattered stranger in front of her. Sarah gritted her teeth to keep the tears from falling- she would not be weak.
"It'll be alright," Joseph MacKenzie mumbled when he saw the broken expression on his daughter's face. Leaning forward, his arms wrapped around her tentatively in an awkward hug. "We'll take care of each other, okay."
Her heart must have broken in that moment and with abandon she desperately clung to him, the force of her sobs shaking her body.
With a rare show of anguish and tenderness, he rocked his daughter tightly in his arms, mumbling incoherently in her hair. All she could hear with his hoarse, grief stricken voice, the wetness of their tears staining her cheeks as she cried for her mother- her father- herself.
Mac was blind when her eyes flew open. Sometime during the night she had kicked the blanket off her bed and her body was suffused in a thin sheen of sweat from the intensity of her unpleasant dream. Steadily, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could faintly see sinister shadows hovering over her in the black room.
Sarah constantly swallowed the polluting silence clinging to each invisible particle in the air. It tainted her mind, thoughts, soul-
She was drowning.
***
It was deep into the night when Mac ambled blindly down the stairs, trying to stay in motion and keep her painful memories at bay. Robotically brushing a strand of brown behind her right ear, she thought it odd she would dream about that distant memory now. It was too real- each detail set perfectly in place to flood her system with an influx of forgotten memories.
Stupid, tramp daughter, his cruel voice rang clearly in her head.
"Eww, this is burned," Sarah whined, poking the food petulantly with her fork. "It's not burned, it's well done." He was laughing at her, eyes bright with mirth as he received her glare.
Ungrateful, whore. No wonder she left you.
"Have you done your homework?" She looked up at her father, hovering over her as she sat casually on the couch, her legs draped over the arm rest as she watched the television.
"Err, yes?" He looked at her, raising an eyebrow as she grinned at him ruefully. "I did most of it." She admitted.
Grabbing the remote on the small coffee table, he clicked the TV set off. "Hand it over, smart girl."
He was drunk. He was laughing. He was slurring obscenities at her as he battered his fists against her locked door. Her back was meshed to the corner wall in her room, eyes glued to the door as she prayed it would hold against his furious assault.
"I'm leaving and I won't come back." She screamed at him, leaving the door swinging furiously on its hinges as she ran out of the house. She was angry but she wanted him to stop her. She almost believed he would, so she hesitated in front of his house, reluctant to leave the only father she'd ever know.
He followed her, his face impassive, arms crossed tightly against his chest as he stared at her from his fixed position at the doorway. His voice was careless, dark eyes filled with apathy as he said those last words that seemed to follow her forever.
"What makes you think I'll ever care?"
He always knew which words would cut the deepest.
Her hands clutched the smooth polished railing, knuckles unnaturally white as she dug her fingernails painfully into the unrelenting wood. She felt a wave of nausea rise up in her stomach at the myriad of emotions her reminiscing evoked.
So many years had passed since then- why now, fragmented memories to rip her to shreds.
There was a look of infinite softness in his eyes as she looked up briefly from the dishes, to catch him staring at her from the dinner table. The warmth of the sun poured through the kitchen window to cleanse her soul.
She touched her fingertips to her cheeks in surprise. She was crying.
***
She had somehow come full circle yet nothing had been resolved, just deeply repressed.
Mac felt a strong sense of déjà vu wash over her as she stared at that inviting bottle of whiskey. This was how it had been that first time, the pain cutting so sharp she ended up skulking around some man's house to filch his alcohol in the middle of the night while he laid fast asleep.
But this was where the similarities ended. The house she was now in was as different from her former dwelling as its owner was from her father. Clayton Webb and Joseph MacKenzie, two men on opposite ends of the human spectrum.
Even the alcohol they kept was evidence of the dissimilarity between the two individuals. Johnny Walker Blue Label, a far cry from the cheap five dollar whiskeys her father stored in his cupboard. It would be so smooth- a deep rush of longing flooding her brain as the bottle beckoned her.
What the hell. Mac reached for the drink. She always did like the clink of the thick glass neck connecting with the edge of the cup- the gurgling of the liquid as it was being poured. Drink in hand, she paused. The air in the room felt different and her senses were tingling. Turning around, the wane light of the pale moon trickled through the bay windows, dimly lining Webb's silhouette. He looked at ease in the dark, his shoulder perched against the entrance of the study, green eyes trained on her face.
Mac looked at Webb- really looked at him.
"You know." It wasn't a question.
Webb gave a slight nod, still leaning against the doorway, unfathomable eyes studying her face. "I do."
Of course he knew, why wouldn't he. "Is it standard CIA procedure to check the background of JAG personal," she asked, not without a trace of bitterness.
"It was a precaution."
The room was silent as Mac studied his imperturbable figure, wondering what else he knew. Melting ice toppled to clink against the glass and her eyes were instantly drawn to the forgotten cup she held. Mouth dry as cotton, she absently scraped her bottom lip against the blunt edge of her teeth.
"Are you going to try and stop me?" Her hand was unsteady and the amber liquid sloshed around on the side of the crystal whiskey cup, glinting wickedly up at her with a sweet promise.
He remained where he was and made no move towards her. "No."
Mac's smile was humorless. "He would."
"I'm not Rabb."
She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard him mutter `thank God' after that last statement and this time her smile was real.
"Would you like to join me?"
Webb's eyes never strayed from hers. "Do you want me to?" His tone was impartial and there was something in the way he looked at her, that made her believe he would leave if she asked him too.
"Well you know what they say; the first sign of alcoholism is drinking alone." Though her statement was meant to be sarcastic, there was a slight wistfulness in her voice that made her realize she didn't want to be alone.
He tilted his head slightly to contemplate her words before taking a cautious step towards her, giving her the chance to change her mind. Her face set, he seemed to come to grips with his own internal struggle and the tension in his shoulders gradually relaxed. Leisurely he strolled towards the bar, grabbing his own glass to pour himself a shot. A small smirk on his face, his sardonic remark lacked any mean spirit to be truly hurtful. "Did you learn that in your eight step program?"
She gave a slight chuckle, welcoming his characteristic tendency to make wry observations at the most inappropriate moments. It eased the tension in the room and she was glad he didn't feel the need to pet her ego. It lent their odd situation a sense of normalcy she desperately needed to maintain.
Without hesitation she brought the glass to her lips, downing the contents with one swift tilt of her hand. Mac sighed in content at the burning tingle rushing down her throat, reveling in the slow burn that consumed her body.
***
They were getting really good at this, these stilted conversations that contained no depth. Sometimes it was frustrating, he was an expert at evading personal inquiries and there were times she felt she knew less about him now then she did before. While he rarely was so direct to completely disregard any of her questions, many of his answers were vague and he seemed particularly fond of the single word reply.
-What are you reading? -Newspaper. -How are you doing? -Fine. -How's the weather? -Cold. -Would you like some coffee? -Yes. -Do you want me to change the channel? –No.
Though their conversations were hardly earth shattering, Mac found their small talk inexplicably soothing and looked forward to the random moments he would appear out of thin air and walk in on her reading or watching TV, to noiselessly sit down and keep her company. He seemed to understand her need for companionship and the time they spent together was for the most part, pleasant. Quickly they settled in an odd routine that confused with its unexpected easiness.
Setting the table with knives and forks, she waited for Webb to unpack their dinner.
"Thank god for restaurants or we'd both starve," he commented as he walked in the dining room with two plates of steaming food.
"I can cook," she feebly volunteered, figuring she should at least posture as a considerate guest for the duration of her stay.
Webb stared at her oddly, the corner of his mouth rising in bemusement. "No you can't."
She would have rebutted but he was right and she was hungry, so she sat down and started shoveling rice in her mouth. After her first bite, she paused and looked at him in defiance. "I can cook." She insisted.
There was a pained expression on Webb's face as he considered the idea. "Please don't."
Mac laughed and shook her head in mock exasperation. "Do you have to be so mordant?"
He shrugged, cutting his chicken with a robotic precision. "Everyone needs a hobby."
"And you excel at yours," she answered.
"I do what I can."
Sitting at the table sharing dinner and interchanging idle conversation poking fun at the other, Mac was suddenly struck by how cozy they must have looked. The thought tickled her head and she suddenly pictured them as a married couple.
Mr. and Mrs. Dysfunction, they'd be called. Her inherently suspicious, cynical CIA spy husband and his needy, emotionally stunted, marine lawyer wife- what a pair they would make. Saving the world by day and eating take out by night.
She must have been considering the subject for some time for Webb to cut in and nod at the half empty plate before her. "Are you finished?"
Shaking the thoughts of spies, lawyers and marriage out of her head, she attacked her food with a renewed vigor. "I'm a marine, Webb. We don't leave our food behind."
Busy devouring her food, she barely caught the rare unguarded smile on Webb's face as he looked at her with a startled affection.
***
The constant inactivity in the house was enough to disturb the dead. In every room she crept, the virtual stillness attacked her, choking her brain with the underlying tension heavily saturating the stagnant air in the empty house.
It had been like this for days since mother left, her father locked alone in his bedroom keeping company with Jack Daniel to drink away his sorrows. The few times she saw him were the tense minutes he ran out of the house, ignoring the large brown eyes silently watching as he tore recklessly out of the driveway, bringing back only more mind numbing liquid.
After two days she gathered her courage, squared her shoulders resolutely and ended up in front of his room. Her first rap against his door was barely loud enough to rouse him out of his drunken stupor. Only silence greeted her and cringing, she tried again, this time her hand curled in a tight ball, a little harder, steadier.
There was a small thud then the dull thumps of his erratic footsteps as he stumbled towards the door. A sudden attack of anxiety stole her breath as she heard the small resounding click of his lock being turned. Gritting her teeth she swallowed nervously and crushed the apprehension in her stomach to look up at her father's expectant face.
His eyes were dead, the face that peered down at her a mixture of belligerence and confusion as he tried to process her image in his inebriated mind.
"Dad?"
Staring at her for a moment, he frowned. "Sarah?" Her name on his lips sounded heart wrenchingly small, foreign.
She wanted to scream at him, tell him it was his fault. He did this, he deserved it. But there was a deep unbearable ache in her soul that cried for the shattered stranger in front of her. Sarah gritted her teeth to keep the tears from falling- she would not be weak.
"It'll be alright," Joseph MacKenzie mumbled when he saw the broken expression on his daughter's face. Leaning forward, his arms wrapped around her tentatively in an awkward hug. "We'll take care of each other, okay."
Her heart must have broken in that moment and with abandon she desperately clung to him, the force of her sobs shaking her body.
With a rare show of anguish and tenderness, he rocked his daughter tightly in his arms, mumbling incoherently in her hair. All she could hear with his hoarse, grief stricken voice, the wetness of their tears staining her cheeks as she cried for her mother- her father- herself.
Mac was blind when her eyes flew open. Sometime during the night she had kicked the blanket off her bed and her body was suffused in a thin sheen of sweat from the intensity of her unpleasant dream. Steadily, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could faintly see sinister shadows hovering over her in the black room.
Sarah constantly swallowed the polluting silence clinging to each invisible particle in the air. It tainted her mind, thoughts, soul-
She was drowning.
***
It was deep into the night when Mac ambled blindly down the stairs, trying to stay in motion and keep her painful memories at bay. Robotically brushing a strand of brown behind her right ear, she thought it odd she would dream about that distant memory now. It was too real- each detail set perfectly in place to flood her system with an influx of forgotten memories.
Stupid, tramp daughter, his cruel voice rang clearly in her head.
"Eww, this is burned," Sarah whined, poking the food petulantly with her fork. "It's not burned, it's well done." He was laughing at her, eyes bright with mirth as he received her glare.
Ungrateful, whore. No wonder she left you.
"Have you done your homework?" She looked up at her father, hovering over her as she sat casually on the couch, her legs draped over the arm rest as she watched the television.
"Err, yes?" He looked at her, raising an eyebrow as she grinned at him ruefully. "I did most of it." She admitted.
Grabbing the remote on the small coffee table, he clicked the TV set off. "Hand it over, smart girl."
He was drunk. He was laughing. He was slurring obscenities at her as he battered his fists against her locked door. Her back was meshed to the corner wall in her room, eyes glued to the door as she prayed it would hold against his furious assault.
"I'm leaving and I won't come back." She screamed at him, leaving the door swinging furiously on its hinges as she ran out of the house. She was angry but she wanted him to stop her. She almost believed he would, so she hesitated in front of his house, reluctant to leave the only father she'd ever know.
He followed her, his face impassive, arms crossed tightly against his chest as he stared at her from his fixed position at the doorway. His voice was careless, dark eyes filled with apathy as he said those last words that seemed to follow her forever.
"What makes you think I'll ever care?"
He always knew which words would cut the deepest.
Her hands clutched the smooth polished railing, knuckles unnaturally white as she dug her fingernails painfully into the unrelenting wood. She felt a wave of nausea rise up in her stomach at the myriad of emotions her reminiscing evoked.
So many years had passed since then- why now, fragmented memories to rip her to shreds.
There was a look of infinite softness in his eyes as she looked up briefly from the dishes, to catch him staring at her from the dinner table. The warmth of the sun poured through the kitchen window to cleanse her soul.
She touched her fingertips to her cheeks in surprise. She was crying.
***
She had somehow come full circle yet nothing had been resolved, just deeply repressed.
Mac felt a strong sense of déjà vu wash over her as she stared at that inviting bottle of whiskey. This was how it had been that first time, the pain cutting so sharp she ended up skulking around some man's house to filch his alcohol in the middle of the night while he laid fast asleep.
But this was where the similarities ended. The house she was now in was as different from her former dwelling as its owner was from her father. Clayton Webb and Joseph MacKenzie, two men on opposite ends of the human spectrum.
Even the alcohol they kept was evidence of the dissimilarity between the two individuals. Johnny Walker Blue Label, a far cry from the cheap five dollar whiskeys her father stored in his cupboard. It would be so smooth- a deep rush of longing flooding her brain as the bottle beckoned her.
What the hell. Mac reached for the drink. She always did like the clink of the thick glass neck connecting with the edge of the cup- the gurgling of the liquid as it was being poured. Drink in hand, she paused. The air in the room felt different and her senses were tingling. Turning around, the wane light of the pale moon trickled through the bay windows, dimly lining Webb's silhouette. He looked at ease in the dark, his shoulder perched against the entrance of the study, green eyes trained on her face.
Mac looked at Webb- really looked at him.
"You know." It wasn't a question.
Webb gave a slight nod, still leaning against the doorway, unfathomable eyes studying her face. "I do."
Of course he knew, why wouldn't he. "Is it standard CIA procedure to check the background of JAG personal," she asked, not without a trace of bitterness.
"It was a precaution."
The room was silent as Mac studied his imperturbable figure, wondering what else he knew. Melting ice toppled to clink against the glass and her eyes were instantly drawn to the forgotten cup she held. Mouth dry as cotton, she absently scraped her bottom lip against the blunt edge of her teeth.
"Are you going to try and stop me?" Her hand was unsteady and the amber liquid sloshed around on the side of the crystal whiskey cup, glinting wickedly up at her with a sweet promise.
He remained where he was and made no move towards her. "No."
Mac's smile was humorless. "He would."
"I'm not Rabb."
She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard him mutter `thank God' after that last statement and this time her smile was real.
"Would you like to join me?"
Webb's eyes never strayed from hers. "Do you want me to?" His tone was impartial and there was something in the way he looked at her, that made her believe he would leave if she asked him too.
"Well you know what they say; the first sign of alcoholism is drinking alone." Though her statement was meant to be sarcastic, there was a slight wistfulness in her voice that made her realize she didn't want to be alone.
He tilted his head slightly to contemplate her words before taking a cautious step towards her, giving her the chance to change her mind. Her face set, he seemed to come to grips with his own internal struggle and the tension in his shoulders gradually relaxed. Leisurely he strolled towards the bar, grabbing his own glass to pour himself a shot. A small smirk on his face, his sardonic remark lacked any mean spirit to be truly hurtful. "Did you learn that in your eight step program?"
She gave a slight chuckle, welcoming his characteristic tendency to make wry observations at the most inappropriate moments. It eased the tension in the room and she was glad he didn't feel the need to pet her ego. It lent their odd situation a sense of normalcy she desperately needed to maintain.
Without hesitation she brought the glass to her lips, downing the contents with one swift tilt of her hand. Mac sighed in content at the burning tingle rushing down her throat, reveling in the slow burn that consumed her body.
***