Title: Turn Back the Clocks

Summary: A post-Paraguay story. Mac is forced into counseling, and comes to terms with Paraguay, Harm, and her life in general.

Part Eight – Harm

I'm tired, I'm sore, but most of all I'm hungry. I open my refrigerator door and I scowl after scanning the content. Nothing. I pull out one of those salads in a bag and wince as I notice the liquid pooled in the bottom of it. So not nothing, but nothing that's actually edible.

I start for the door, planning on running out for some take out, and I notice the answering machine blinking at me. I feel both trepidation and excitement at the thought of another message from Mac. And then I feel fear – what if there isn't a message from her? What if she's had some kind of a break through in therapy and is done reaching out to me? Part of me wants that. I need that. I know I'll never be able to move on as long as she's in my life. Even if she's only in my life by way of my answering machine. I know I'll never be able to be her friend again. But the idea of her being done also terrifies me. I don't know why. Things have been… not great… between us for a long time, and I know part of that is my fault for not telling her about Singer. But even when things aren't great, knowing she's there gives me some sense of comfort.

And I need that right now. My job with the CIA is terrible, and I'm being asked to do things I can't do. It's only a matter of time before they cut me loose, and then what? I don't know. But as difficult and uncertain as all of this is, it's still not as unsettling with my relationship with her.

I have three messages, and I hesitantly reach out and I hit play. I had expected to hear her voice, but the first message is from my mother and the second is from my grandmother. I scowl as I listen to them, both women saying nearly the same thing as if they had coordinated them. I delete each one and hold my breath as the third one starts, and I let out the breath when I recognize her voice.

The message is brief, and unlike the others it gives me no real insight into what's going on with her. She has nothing to say to me? What does that mean? Does that mean that she is done reaching out to me? I almost wish my horrible trip had lasted another day. Because tomorrow is Thursday, and I usually get a second message on Thursday. I stare at the machine for a minute, and then I hit delete. It was the first of her messages that I've deleted. I feel a twinge of regret once it's done, but I also feel victorious. I feel like a teenage boy who has just been rejected by a girl, and tells his friends that it's okay because he didn't really like her that much anyway.

Friends. Not that I have very many of those these days anyway. I have Keeter, and I'm thankful for him and the twenty plus years of uncomplicated friendship, but he's in Dubai doing god knows what. I obviously don't have Sturgis anymore. And I don't have my friends at JAG anymore either. I know I could if I wanted to, but I don't want to. I've had about a dozen messages from Bud and Harriet. They've invited me for dinner, invited me for lunch, told me that AJ misses me and asks about me. But I just can't bring myself to call them. I can't tell them what's been going on, because it would be wildly inappropriate. But, like everything in my life, it also circles back to Mac. I think of her earlier messages and her heartbreaking words about her lack of friends, and I can't help but wonder about her current relationship with the Roberts'. If they were still friendly, I can't confide in them because Harriet had a tendency to meddle and I know anything I say to them would get back to her. But if something happened and they aren't on friendly terms, well, I can't help but be angry at them for that. Nothing that had happened since I resigned and went to Paraguay had anything to do with them, and I hate the thought that they may be taking my absence out on her.

My stomach growls and it distracts me from the thoughts running through my head. Food first. Everything else can wait.

I'm embarrassed to admit that it takes me a while to realize where I've been heading, and I feel my face heat when I recognize her building. I turn into a bank parking lot across the street to turn around, but I pause and I stare at the building for a moment. Her car is sitting out front, parked in its normal space, and I see lights on in her unit. I sit there for another minute, trying not to think about how creepy this would be if anyone found out about this. It takes every bit of strength and willpower I possess not to put the car in park, and run across the street and knock on her door.

I sat in that parking lot for another minute, and then finally pull out of the lot and turn my car back to my neighborhood. I stop at a Mexican place for dinner and place an order for spinach enchiladas and then I sit on a vinyl covered booth and wait. I haven't been there long when the bell on the door jingles. My time in this new job has made me almost fanatical about being aware of my surroundings and I glance up, out of habit. I immediately mutter a curse under my breath, and I turn my head slightly so they can't see me. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Singer was positively delightful to be around compared to my new coworkers, and these men are two of the worst. I sit quietly and hold my breath, willing the hostess to hurry up and come back so she can seat them before they notice me. They're nice enough to my face, but they are truly horrible people, and I just don't have it in me right now to make small talk and pretend they're not vile.

"I blame Webb for that."

My head jerks up at the sound of his name. I had only been out of the country for four days. Had something happened? Was he back? Had he already screwed up something else?

The other guy snorted a laughed. "Come on, man. He's in rehab. How the hell can this be his fault?"

The first guy shrugged and scanned the restaurant. "Eh. He's a fuck up. I'm sure somehow, someway this is his fault."

I imagine I look pretty comical at this moment. I know my eyes are wide and my mouth is open. Rehab? Webb is in rehab? I want to stand up and ask them what the hell they're talking about, but I don't. I stay still and watch as they grab a server and, rather rudely, ask if anyone is actually working here. I wince as the young Hispanic woman apologizes for their wait and grabs two menus and takes them to a table. Once they're gone, I briefly relax before their words are repeating themselves over and over in my head. Webb is in rehab.

Webb is in rehab?

I try to stay out of the office as much as I can. Being there makes me feel worse somehow about what I'm doing. It makes me feel dirty. Especially when the young and idealistic staffers who just want to serve their country look at me with adoration. A memory pops into my head, and I can't help but smile. It was a year or two ago. Brumby and Renee were gone, and things with Mac and I were the best they'd ever been. The admiral had sent me to speak to a group of high school kids in an NROTC program. I had come back to the office afterward, and was telling her how they looked at me with awe when I talked, and how I was sure there had been a couple of future pilots and lawyers in that group. She had burst out laughing and told me that they were probably looking at me in awe because of how good my ass looked in my blues. She had blushed at her compliment, and almost ran to the elevator. I had dreamt of that moment for a few nights after that. Although in my dream instead of watching her scurry away, I had pulled her into my office, closed the blinds and then had my way with her on top of my desk. It had been a good dream.

I sat down at my desk to do the paperwork I had come in for, and was nearly successful in getting in and out without having to speak to anyone. And when the finish line was almost in sight, Catherine walked in and closed the door behind her.

"Long time, no see."

I glance up at her, and then back to my computer screen. "What do you want, Catherine?"

She shrugs and perches herself on the edge of my desk. Her skirt rises to an almost indecent level, and I look away in disgust. I'll admit it; I once found her appealing. She's beautiful and intelligent, and when she was helping me, I liked her. But that ship has sailed. Since our night together, I want nothing to do with her. Once upon a time I would have felt guilty over that, but not anymore. Now I'm just sorry it happened, and the memory of that night makes me hate myself and her. I don't want her.

"I just came in to say hi. And to see if you want to get together tonight."

She shifts, drawing my attention to her, and the skirt rises higher. I realize there is no way she's wearing anything under that skirt, and my face turns red. I know I'm a good-looking man. I'm not going to be disingenuous and pretend otherwise. But I don't think I've ever been pursued like this by a woman. I shift a pile of paperwork towards her spot on my desk, and I feel satisfied when the corners of a stack of folders hits her bare thigh and she stands.

"I'm busy."

She frowns, and crosses her arms over her chest. "Doing what?"

I push back from my desk and cross my own arms over my chest. "It doesn't concern you. Get out, Catherine."

She moves closer and I stand, wanting to avoid a repeat of that night when she ended up in my lap. I move to the door and open it wide. "Get out." She raises an eyebrow at me and my resolve strengthens. "Get out, or I will make a scene." I can tell that she doesn't think I will, so I move to stand inside the doorframe. I hate the thought of making a scene. I'm not that kind of guy. But if it gets this woman out of my office and away from me I absolutely will. Apparently, she sees that I'm serious and leaves my office without another word. Once she's gone, I sigh in relief and shut the door and return to my paperwork.

It isn't until I'm on my way out of the office and on my way home when I see a crew of workmen outside of Webb's door. They're removing his name from the glass door, and I stand there and watch them for a moment. I know I have to find out why he's in rehab, but I don't know who to ask. I can't ask Mac. I think I'd rather tap a hungry grizzly bear on the shoulder than talk to her about him. I don't want to ask anyone here because god knows what kind of answer I'd get. That leaves one person. His mother. I've been to Porter Webb's stately mansion a couple of times, and I think I remember the way.

I was able to find the Webb family home fairly easily. I made two wrong turns, but the house is in one of those neighborhoods where you seem to always end up where you need to be. I knocked on the front door and took a step back while I wait for a maid to answer. But it isn't a maid that opens the door. It's Mrs. Webb. Only she looks different than the previous times I've seen her. She looks older. She looks tired. And I feel guilty for a minute. I've spent the past few months obsessed with how Paraguay ruined my life, but I hadn't thought much about the other collateral damage.

"Hi, Mrs. Webb. I'm sorry to bother you-"

She steps back and opens the door wider. "Come in, Mr. Rabb." I step into the foyer and look around. I'm used to being around wealth. My stepfather has more money than he could spend in five lifetimes, but this is a different kind of wealth. Frank's money came from hard work and excellent investments. The Webb money is ancestral. She shuts the door behind me and then starts walking to the formal sitting room. I follow, and then stand awkwardly while. "Sit. Please."

I do so, and watch as she pours a glass of mineral water and walks it over to me, before pouring another for herself. She sits down on the sofa opposite mine and crosses her legs. She knows why I'm here. And I know she's waiting for me to ask. So, I do. "Mrs. Webb, I heard that Webb is in rehab." She nods simply, but says nothing. "May I ask what happened?"

She studied me for what feels like an eternity. "He's been drinking almost constantly since he's been home. And one night his neighbor found him passed out in the hallway of his building. They called an ambulance, the hospital called me, and I persuaded him to seek treatment."

I nod, although I'm not sure why. "I'm sorry," I finally manage to say.

"Thank you." She stands and wipes her palms on her slacks. "Anyway. That's that. Now if you'll excuse me-"

I stand, but I don't follow her to the door. "Ma'am, I'm sorry; but I have to ask. Does Sarah MacKenzie know?" My tongue darts out to lick my lips. It's the first time I've said her name out loud in months, and I feel an ache in my chest. Mrs. Webb watches me for what feels like another eternity. I can tell she's trying to decide how much, if anything to tell me, and I wish she had a more expressive face.

"Ms. MacKenzie knows."

I nod, unsure of what else to do or say. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Webb."

She nods and she makes her way to the door. I set the crystal glass she hand handed me on the coffee table and hurry to follow her. Once I'm back outside I take a deep breath, feeling relieved to be out of that oppressive house.

I walk into my apartment, but I don't feel the comfort that I usually do when I walk into my home. The place is too quiet and tonight I feel too alone. If I drank too much and ended up passed out in the hallway would anyone notice? Would anyone care? I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party. I know my mother and grandmother, and even my stepfather, would care. But they wouldn't notice right away. It's not like any of us keep in touch through regular phone calls or emails. I've gone months without checking in. I could literally die in my hallway before anyone would miss me.

It's a sobering thought.

I walk into the kitchen and pick up the bottle of scotch I'd been making my way through and pour it down the drain. Drowning one's sorrows never solves anything. It didn't for Mac. It didn't for Webb. And it wasn't doing much for me. My sorrows were still there, and still as present as they had been for months.

When the bottle is empty and in the recycling bin, I grab a bottle of water and the ingredients for my dinner. I've been eating out too much lately, and I have the overwhelming desire to cook something. My chicken and vegetables are roasting when the phone rings. I wipe my hands on a towel and walk over to the phone. It keeps ringing, but I don't answer it. Part of me wants to. I want to pick it up, and say her name out loud again. But I don't. I can't. I stare at it while it rings two more times, and then the answering machine picks up and I hold my breath.

"Hey Harm, it's me. Mac."

It's her. She always introduces herself, as if I could ever forget the sound of her voice. Only… She doesn't sound like herself. She sounds happier than she did on the last message. She sounds lighter. And I feel a little breathless with anticipation.

"This is silly, and I feel like such an idiot telling you this. But I think I've made a friend. Or at least, I'm in the process of making a friend. I'm headed to have a late dinner with her now. Anyway. I remembered how a few weeks ago I told your answering machine that my lack of friendships and lack of pride in myself needed to change, especially since I didn't have you in my life anymore. I don't know if you listened to that message, or really if you've listened to any of these. But if you do listen to these, I want you to know that I'm doing better. I miss you and I hope you're in a good place. You deserve it."

I stand and stare at the machine for a while. She's doing better. She's moving on. She has a potential new friend. And what do I have? Nothing. I have absolutely nothing. I know it's not her fault. Logically I know that. But she's moving on with her life while I'm stuck in this horrible limbo, and I hate her for that.

End Part 8