A/N: By the time you finish reading this chapter, you will undoubtedly have figured out that at one point in time I was mildly obsessed with another TV show besides JAG… )

The characters, storylines – pretty much anything related to the other series – belong to Paramount pictures, and are only referred to here to further the JAG storyline. I am not benefiting from their use in any way other than it was fun to revisit some old friends for a short while.

Chapter 11

Wednesday
March 27, 2002
1215 ZULU (0715 local)
JAG Headquarters
Falls Church, Virginia

For the last fifteen hours I've been trying desperately to come up with some kind of argument that will make sense to Bud, something I can say that will make him see the wisdom of my words and ask the admiral to rescind his pending Seahawk orders. Even at dinner last night, when Harm tried to coax it out of me, I couldn't talk. I just sat there at the table not tasting my meal and begging off early because I still didn't feel very well. This morning so far I've spent anxiously in my office, waiting for Bud and Harriet to arrive. I still don't know exactly what I'm going to say, but hopefully the words will flow when I finally have the chance to speak with Bud alone.

While waiting, I've been keeping myself busy reviewing the details of another case file that was sitting on my desk, but even after perusing the folder's contents for the better part of an hour I still wouldn't be able to name the defendant, the charge or the circumstances surrounding the case if anyone were to wander into my office and ask. I'm just about to return to reading the same page for the millionth time when I at last hear the echoes of Harriet's pert "Good morning!" to Petty Officer Robson, who sits just across from Bud's office at the entrance to the bullpen. In a flash I'm heading in the direction of Bud's door. Gathering all the Marine Corps bearing I can muster, I square my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face, and give a good and hearty knock on the jamb.

"Good morning, Colonel." Bud grins warmly as he looks up and sees me standing in his doorway. "How are you? Are you feeling any better today?"

"Yeah, I'm better now. Thanks for asking." Wringing my hands in front of me for a moment, I give an uncertain glance around before returning my attention to Bud. "Listen, uh, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure. Please, come in." There's a slight expression of perplexity in Bud's eyes as he gestures for me to take one of the chairs in front of his desk, as though he knows exactly what I'd like to talk about but can't quite believe I'm daring to broach the subject yet again. Truth be told, I'd probably think the same thing if I were in his shoes.

"About yesterday." I begin hesitantly, looking briefly down at my hands. "I want to apologize for running out on you. Believe it or not, I do know the post aboard the Seahawk is a great opportunity, and what it would mean to your career. No one deserves the position more."

"Thank you, ma'am." He nods in acceptance, although I can see that he's wondering what else I have to say, his brow furrowing in an unspoken, But?

Taking a deep breath, I continue forward. "Something's going to happen. I can't explain how I know, exactly, but you can't take the assignment because something's going to happen to you."

"You had a vision about me?" he asks. "Like the one you had about Chloe, or how you found the commander when his plane went down last spring?"

"Exactly!" My heart jumps and I nod eagerly, seizing the explanation he's just unwittingly handed me. "Bud, you're going to—"

He cuts me off with an emphatic, "No, don't tell me!" drowning out the rest of my words. To my shock, he rises from his chair, eyes widening as he pats the air in front of him with his hand, motioning for me to be quiet. "No, no, no… I don't want to know!"

"What do you mean, you don't want to know?" I ask incredulously. If someone had told me that I was going to go back in time, I sure as hell would have wanted some kind of warning! "Bud, I—"

"I'm serious, ma'am," he repeats forcefully, pausing for a moment until he sees that I'm listening. "I appreciate your trying to tell me, but I really, really don't want to know."

"How can you say that?" A stealthy sense of desperation settles in my chest, undermining my determination to stay calm. "Bud, are you sure you don't want to know what your future holds?"

His sigh echoes loudly through the small office. "Ma'am, knowing what happens in the future is a big deal. What if my destiny hinges entirely on whatever it is you've seen? What if I make a choice based on what you tell me, and it turns out to be the wrong decision? There are all sorts of consequences at stake, repercussions that I don't want to even begin to contemplate."

Moving to shuffle through the stack of folders on his desk, his manner contains an element of restrained anxiety. "Whenever someone knows about the future, it automatically taints his actions and compromises the time stream. It doesn't matter if he's got good intentions about keeping the timeline true; he's already pre-disposed to start questioning everything and second-guessing himself. It's a commonly known fact of temporal physics. What if the future you've seen for me is the correct one? What if I'm supposed to go out to the Seahawk? If I don't go, then what if there's an alternate timeline created, an alternate universe… an alternate JAG universe that's populated by… people who look like us, but who aren't really us? And then there's the possibility that the real universe could get lost forever, all because at one point in time I made the wrong choice. All because I was afraid of something that you saw happen to me and it caused a warp in the established space-time continuum."

With that, he looks back up at me, perfectly serious. "Ma'am, if something were to happen to the entire universe because I'd consciously tried to change my destiny, I couldn't live with myself."

"What are you talking about, Bud?" My head is spinning from his sudden monologue.

"The potential effects of pre-cognizance on the space-time continuum," he explains again, grabbing his briefcase from beside his desk.

I don't believe this. "You're talking Star Wars?"

He flashes me a patient-but-sympathetic look, the kind an adult gives to a child when making a common and easily avoidable mistake.

"Star Trek, ma'am."

Gently easing a small stack of folders into his attaché case, he reaches for a pen and elaborates, speaking so quickly that it takes a moment for my brain to catch up:

"There were a lot of storylines that explored the consequences of interfering with the space-time continuum. In the original series, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock had to fix history when Doctor McCoy inadvertently damaged the 'original' timeline. The Next Generation episodes 'Redemption' and 'Unification' similarly dealt with repercussions from Tasha Yar's decision to go back in time with the Enterprise C in 'Yesterday's Enterprise', after she realized she'd died in the 'original' timeline. And in the fifth season's cliffhanger, the Enterprise-D crew went back in time to 19th century San Francisco, where Data encountered all sorts of challenges trying not to contaminate the timeline after he got separated from everyone else. And Peter David wrote a great book called Imzadi in which Commander Riker jumps from the future to the past and back again just to change a single moment in his history with Counselor Troi. I think at one point he even mentions a temporal Prime Directive—"

"Bud!" My head is spinning – I should have known better than to ignite his enthusiasm for all things science fiction. When he finally stops, I lower my voice a notch. "I get the picture."

That at least earns me a sheepish smile. Some things never change, I guess. Silence looms awkwardly between us for an interminable second.

At long last Bud speaks, picking up his briefcase. "I do appreciate your wanting to warn me, ma'am, but I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment with Judge Morris at oh-seven-thirty. I really can't be late."

I give a faint nod, watching blankly as he gives me one last sympathetic glance before rounding his desk and heading past me out the door. Outside in the bullpen I can hear the rest of the office beginning to awaken, people coming in and greeting each other warmly, heading off to the coffee room together for their morning jolt of caffeine. I've never felt so impotent in my life, knowing that I can make a difference in a close friend's future and yet having my hands tied by that same friend's stubbornness to hear me out!

If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment…

Ignoring the nagging reminder that the fortune cookie's message referred specifically to MY life, and not necessarily my friends' lives, it occurs to me as I sit in Bud's otherwise empty office that maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Bud's words from just a few minutes before overlap and meld with the phrase that's been so paramount in my life for the last six months, ever since I woke up that fateful morning and began reliving my past.

…just to change a single moment in his history…

With a start, a new idea hits me. What if I'm thinking too big? What if, instead of trying to convince Bud to radically change his future, I were to plant the seed in his mind so that when the time comes he makes one small decision that effects the same outcome but at a fraction of the cost? I don't have to prevent him necessarily from going out to the Seahawk; I just have to make sure that he never stands on that road in Afghanistan! Even if he does go in-country, if Bud's not on that road when the young boy navigates that minefield then he won't step into harm's way…

A slow grin spreads across my face as I realize how I can still warn Bud without compromising his beliefs about knowing the future. Clenching my hand into an excited fist, I give the chair arm a brief-but-firm anticipatory thump before pushing out of the chair and heading back to my own office.

Thursday
March 28, 2002
0028 ZULU (1928 local)
Roberts' Residence
Rosslyn, Virginia

The next evening I'm once again marveling at Harriet's ability to pull off the near-impossible when it comes to entertaining: in just a few days, she's not only organized a going-away party for her husband but has managed to bring in a sense of style and élan that could rival any upper crust party in the metro Washington area. Out of the corner of my eye I spot her across the room making the rounds with a platter of fancy finger food, offering some to the admiral before moving on to another clump of guests. Between the hors d'oeuvres and the "Good Luck Bud" cake – which reminds me, I must ask where she had it made because it really does look like an aircraft carrier – Harriet has seriously outdone herself this time.

While Harm and I haven't made our relationship officially known to our colleagues yet, we came together tonight and have been at each other's sides for most of the evening. I take a large measure of comfort just knowing that he's nearby; even though I've got a game plan now as far as Bud's fate is concerned, and I've calmed down considerably since our discussion yesterday morning, there's still a part of me that craves the tangible presence of my significant other. Fortunately our professional relationship has grown close enough over the years that we can stand mere inches from one another and not arouse suspicion among the rest of the office staff. I have enough on my mind tonight without having to worry about how to deflect the rumor mill's incessant grist.

For the last few days I've been a little off-kilter, what with Bud's impending transfer and all, but tonight I'm finally feeling like myself again. Mostly I'm dressed up because when off-duty I like wearing clothes significantly more feminine than my normal class-A uniform, but I've admittedly got an ulterior motive this evening, namely plans to seduce a certain tall dark and droolworthy fellow JAG attorney after the party's over. Allowing myself one more moment of distraction – Harm's standing to my right and looking way too delicious for his own good in those civilian clothes – I briefly entertain the thought of getting him out of that black sport coat and pinstriped shirt before giving myself a mental shake. Clearing from my mind the image of buttons popping off in every which direction, I refocus on the conversation at hand.

As would be expected at a going-away party, the three of us – me, Harm and the guest of honor – have been talking about Bud's new assignment and what may be in store for him over the course of his deployment. Although I've never been a shipboard JAG, nor technically has Harm, it seems from just a few minutes' discussion that Bud's impression of his new post is somewhat… inflated. Sure, he'll be involved in the battle group's decisions around rules of engagement while the Seahawk is in the Arabian Sea, but other than that I seriously doubt if Bud'll be doing much more than handling petty grievances, wills, and other routine legal paperwork. Apparently Harm is thinking the same thing as I feel him chuckle beside me.

"What sort of cases are you expecting, Bud?" I ask, poker face firmly in place. Just then, the admiral joins us. Despite the fact that our CO is also wearing civvies and is sporting a beer in one hand, I sincerely hope Bud doesn't put his foot in his mouth. On the bright side, though, at least tonight his clothes are spotless and he's wearing a tie.

"Well, 'hot button' issues, ma'am." There's an air of naïve sincerity in his face that underscores just how serious he is. "Approving tactical strikes on enemy targets, working with allied legal officers on international treaties…"

Granted, yes, he'll be doing all that… but the other ninety-five percent of his time he'll be dutifully earning his reputation among the crew as the resident legal weenie.

"Really?" Harm questions, sneaking a glance my way.

"Oh yes, sir. Perhaps even trying foreign terrorists in military tribunals," Bud nods enthusiastically. Hmn, on second thought, maybe he's not so far off base with his ideas about the carrier JAG spot after all – the name Mustafah Atef comes to mind.

Standing there absorbing the interchange thus far, the admiral takes the opportunity to interject a wry, "Sounds exciting, Lieutenant."

"Well, sir, compared to the mundane, day-to-day work of JAG…"

Bud trails off as he realizes what he's just said, in effect having told THE Judge Advocate General that the things we do at the Falls Church Headquarters don't rate much above 'boring' on the naval law excite-o-meter. Harm and I both fight the urge to laugh at the deer-in-headlights look that crosses his face.

"Not that what we do here isn't important…" he retracts hurriedly.

Thankfully the admiral appears to share our amusement at Bud's inopportune comment, because in spite of his usual stoicism there's a detectable undercurrent of laughter in his voice. "Glad to hear you say that."

"It's just that, you know," Bud stammers, "international law is—"

"A hotter button." The admiral's expression is characteristically unreadable. There's an element of humor in his delivery, however, that makes me realize for the millionth time just how much I'd missed seeing this side of our CO. Once again I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to go back into my past and make changes to my future. Maybe if I'm able to figure out what went wrong with the admiral, I can fix that too.

Bud doesn't seem to know quite how to respond to the admiral's comment, but it doesn't matter. A moment later the admiral makes his excuses and heads off to avail himself of Harriet's tray of pseudo-sushi and mini-wieners.

"I'm sure you'll be involved in other things besides international law, Bud." I try to reassure him after the admiral is out of hearing range. "After all, you'll be serving as the dedicated legal representative for over five thousand crew members. That's a definite increase in responsibility. It'll look great on your service record."

"Don't worry, Bud. It won't all be paper-pushing," Harm adds. "When I was deployed, the shipboard JAG spent a fair amount of time in-country, especially when I was stationed on the Henry." That Harm fails to mention the stacks of files he'd been asked by his peers to review while aboard the USS Patrick Henry – when he wasn't even the carrier's assigned JAG – doesn't escape my notice, but I bite my tongue.

"Doing what, sir?"

I try not to mentally cringe at the zeal with which Bud's face has just lit up, reminding myself that his going in-country isn't an issue so long as he doesn't attend that school dedication.

"Depends on what's needed. Generally investigative work for cases involving members of the crew, but you may also find yourself doing non-legal work. Having a PR background will come in handy. We need a positive naval presence in the Middle East now more than ever."

"That's right, Bud. You'll probably be asked to go in-country as the navy's representative," I add with a smile, suddenly spotting an opening. Leaning forward slightly, I cup my mug carefully in both hands and lower my voice, adding, "Just do me a favor and don't go to any groundbreaking ceremonies. Okay?"

To my right, Harm's brow furrows slightly. He obviously doesn't get my cryptic comment, but that's okay – it's not meant for him. What's important is that Bud understands my meaning.

For a moment I'm not sure that he does, because he automatically asks, "Groundbreaking ceremonies, ma'am?"

C'mon, Bud. Work with me here. I nod, my gaze locked with his, breath locked tight in my lungs.

A split second later I can see the lightbulb blink on. Bud's face instantly shifts from confusion to comprehension, and finally, to acceptance. "Groundbreaking ceremonies. Got it, ma'am. No groundbreaking ceremonies."

Message sent and received.

The sudden sense of relief that washes through me is powerful. Exhaling as I straighten up, I feel as though a tremendous weight has been lifted off my shoulders. My smile is almost involuntary as I say, "I think I'm going to go get some more tea. Can I get either of you something?"

Bud shakes his head ruefully. "You go on ahead. I should mingle before Harriet accuses me of ignoring the other guests."

"Understandable." Harm grins, shifting his drink to one hand so he can place the other at the small of my back. The heat from his palm sears my skin through the thin silk fabric of my blouse as he gently steers me in the direction of the kitchen. When we get to the threshold leading into the other room, he leans close and murmurs, "Groundbreaking ceremonies, Mac?"

A delectable shiver runs down my spine at the feel of his breath against my ear. For the first time in days, I find myself tensing up from physical arousal, rather than emotional stress. Only Harm has ever been able to make me go from zero to sixty with minimal physical contact. Turning slightly so that I can look up into his eyes, I give a canned explanation. "Inside joke."

"Oh…" He nods knowingly.

"Tell you what," I whisper softly, giving what I hope comes across as a secretive smile as I reach up and play seductively with his lapel. From this angle I can see the wonderful hue of his irises, blue with little green flecks in them. "How about we give ourselves twenty minutes to have some cake and make our goodbyes, then meet down by the car. I'm in the mood to see if we can't make a few groundbreaking earthquakes of our own. What do you say, sailor? Want to see who can make it out of here first?"

For a heart-stopping moment I think he's going to close the gap and kiss me, but thankfully we've both got enough self-control to remember that we're still in public. Besides, even though it's a win-win situation, I've just thrown a gauntlet at his feet… and Harm's never one to back down from a challenge.

"You're on, Marine," he agrees with a growl, his thoughtful countenance breaking into what over the years I've come to think of as his dark and dangerous flyboy grin. "Let the games begin."