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 Fourteen – Mac

Every seasonally appropriate outfit I own is on the bed, and yet I have nothing to wear.

Nothing seems right. Nothing fits right. I've gained back some of the weight I've lost, so my new clothes are snug, and my old clothes are still too big. We're not going anywhere fancy for dinner; we're just going to an Indian restaurant in Alexandria we both love. It's in an ancient looking strip mall, and isn't remotely fancy, but the food is the best in the area, and the booths are huge, private, and perfect for an intense conversation.

I hope there will be an intense conversation. I hope we don't sit there in silence while I eat my lamb vindaloo. And naan. I always order extra naan when I go out for Indian food. I eat all of the naan and usually end up taking most of my dinner home with me. Because the curries and stews are much better reheated than the naan is.

I shake my head to clear it of thoughts of puffed bread coated in garlic and butter, and return to my current dilemma. What do I wear? I pick up the phone and dial Sophie's number.

"I'm trying to meet a deadline, so talk fast."

I can't help but grin. "What do I wear to dinner tonight?" She groans, and I push some jeans to the side and sit on the edge of the bed. "Please, Soph. I need guidance from an expert." She snorts and I grin.

"Those gray skinny jeans." I open my mouth to protest, but she keeps talking before I can say a word. "And don't tell me they're too tight, because they're not. And your ass looks phenomenal in them. Those jeans, your red suede pumps, and that light gray and white polka dot top."

"Isn't it a little cold for those shoes?"

She sighs, and I hear typing in the background. "No. You're walking from your car to the restaurant. You'll be fine."

"Okay." I stand and dig through the pile, looking for the garments she mentioned. "Thanks Sophie."

"Anytime. Call me when you get home tonight and tell me everything. And don't wear sexy underwear."

We hang up and I put on the clothes. While the jeans do feel too tight, I have to admit she is right about how I look in them. I'm not as shapely as I was before Paraguay, but I feel healthy. I look healthy. I've been running again, and my legs are toned and firm. My six pack doesn't exist anymore, but my stomach is flat and no longer concave. I feel good. I know there is a chance I'll never again be the person I was before Paraguay, and I'm finally okay with that. More than okay, actually. I kind of like this version of myself better.

Traffic is light, and I arrive at the restaurant a few minutes early. There is no sign of either of Harm's vehicles in the parking lot, and I take a deep breath and lean back in my seat while I wait. He pulls into the parking lot a few minutes later, and I feel a fluttering in my belly when I see him step out of his SUV. He's a beautiful man on his worst day, but tonight he's wearing a form fitting navy-blue sweater and I itch to touch him. I step out of my car, and call his name. He turns to look at me, and walks in my direction. "Hi."

He smiles, but it isn't a genuine smile. Harmon Rabb Jr. has two smiles that make my knees weak. One is his famous flyboy smile. The one that will charm anyone into doing anything and everything he asks. But the other smile is my favorite. It's less showy, more sincere, and his eyes always sparkle. That's the smile I want to see from him again.

"Hey Mac. Been waiting long?"

I shake my head and we begin walking to the restaurant. I stand back while he talks to the hostess, and then she's leading us to a booth in the corner. The backs of the booth come up nearly to the ceiling, and I imagine this is probably the most private spot in the restaurant. She pours two glasses of water and tells us our server will be along shortly. I haven't even had time to think about what to say to him when our waiter arrives. He's a handsome young man, and leaves us with a basket of papadum crackers and a chutney trio. We both order iced tea to drink, and open our menus so we can be ready to order when he returns. I don't know why we bother though – we always get the same thing. And when the waiter returns, that's exactly what we order. I order my beloved garlic naan and lamb vindaloo, while Harm orders the tandoori salmon – which I have to admit is pretty good. The waiter leaves again, and we're left in silence.

I don't know what to say to him, and I hate that. I used to be able to tell him everything. Well. Almost everything. And now I sit here unsure of what to say to him. I realize that it isn't just that I'm unsure of what to say to him, but I don't know what to say to him. I don't want to talk about our past. I don't want to talk about our former coworkers. I don't want to talk about Sergei or Webb. And if those topics are off limits, then what's left? And then I'm struck with a horrifying thought: can there even be an us without JAG and the military? If he and I met at a bar or a concert right now, would there be anything between us between mutual physical attraction? I don't know, and that's terrifying. What if I've spent the last eight years of my life planning a future around a man I'm ultimately incompatible with? I stare at my glass of tea and will myself not to cry.

"I need to talk to you about something."

I look up, surprised that he spoke first. I nod, and lean back. "Okay."

He takes a deep breath, and shifts in his seat. "I'm leaving town for a while."

My eyes go wide, and I feel them fill with tears. He's leaving. He's actually leaving. "Is this because of the other night?" He swallows, and I feel my face color. I know that it is. He's leaving – he's leaving me – because I didn't have sex with him?

"It's not what you're thinking." His voice is low and gentle, and I'm reminded of how much I love just listening to him talk. "I'm not angry that we didn't have sex." He smiles, and it's a less-happy version of the smile I love the most. "You were right." He takes a breath, and reaches across the table to touch my hand. "Mac, I-" I turned my hand over under his, and our finger tips are touching. The touch is light, but my whole being is vibrating with this nearness to him. He's obviously affected too, and has stopped talking to watch our fingers touch. He clears his throat. "Mac, I've been angry for a long time. I've been angry, and hurt, and jealous. Now I'm all of those things as well as unhappy and unemployed." He looks up at me and I can see the emotion written all over his beautiful face. "I've been envious of you. I'm glad you're putting your life back together, but it's hard to watch when my life is such a mess."

I feel my face flush with heat again, and I pull my hand back. I scoff, and fold my hands together before putting them in my lap. "I'm sorry that I'm not as fucked up as I used to be."

I see fire flash in his eyes and I can tell he's trying to calm himself before he speaks. "I'm glad you're not as fucked up as you used to be." I raise an eyebrow at his profanity. We've been friends for eight years and I don't think I'd even need to use all ten fingers if I tried to count the number of times I've heard him drop the f-bomb. "I'm glad you're not. But it's hard for me. You've always been broken, and I've usually been here for you. And now…" He goes quiet again, so I wait. It's killing me to be patient, but I have to wait. So many of my Harm-related blunders have been from trying to rush him into doing or saying something he's not ready for. He takes a sip of his tea and leans back. "I'm broken, Mac. I have been for a really long time." He closes his eyes and when he reopens them, they're sad and my heart aches for him. "Maybe since I was a kid. I've never dealt with anything that's happened. I never dealt with my dad going missing. I never dealt with my own trip to Vietnam. I've never dealt with Russia or your wedding or Singer's death. And now I'm not dealing with Paraguay." His eyes move over me and his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

"What are you going to do? When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow. And I'm going to the farm. And then to La Jolla." He smiles, and I relax a little. "My grandmother actually told me recently that I didn't need her, I need you. That you and I need each other." I inhale sharply, surprised at the words of this woman I've never met. "And she's partly right," he continues. "If my issues were just stemming from Paraguay, she would be right. But it's not just Paraguay. I'm not good for you – or any woman - while I feel like this."

I nod. I want to help him and be there for him however he needs, but he's right. He needs to do for himself what I've been doing in therapy. "I understand. It's like…" I trail off as I consider my words and how best to phrase what I want to say. "It's like we've both had a lifetime of issues we've ignored, but Paraguay was so traumatic, it just brought everything else we've been ignoring to the surface." And if we're ever going to really be together, we both need to deal with all of the issues we've been ignoring.

"Yeah, exactly." He lets out a sigh of relief and his posture relaxes. "Mac, I'm not sure how long I'll be gone, but-"

I hold up my hand to stop whatever it is he's about to say. I don't want him to ask me to wait for him, but I also don't want him to ask me not to wait for him. Our eyes meet, and I swallow. "Don't say it. Just – just call me when you get back."

"How was dinner?"

I collapse onto the sofa, with the phone pressed against my ear. "He's leaving."

"Leaving?" I know she's frowning. I can hear it in her voice. "Where's he going?"

I sigh and kick off my heels before pulling my legs up to the ottoman. "His grandmother's farm. And then to his mom & step-fathers home in California." Sophie is quiet, and I shift. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here." She goes quiet again, and then finally sighs softly. "I'm sure that wasn't how you wanted the evening to go, but I'm glad he's leaving. He's still in this dark place, and I don't want him bringing you down and ruining the progress you've made." This time I'm the one who goes quiet. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I-"

I cut her off. "No, don't be sorry. He said pretty much the same thing, and I know you're both right. I just feel guilty. He gave up so much for me, and months later I'm finally doing better, while he's still in so much pain."

"He gave up so much for you because he wanted to. You have nothing to feel guilty about. I hope he deals with everything that's happened, and I hope he finds peace with it. I know I've called him an asshole multiple times, but you wouldn't care about him as much as you do if he didn't have some redeeming qualities."

I smile, thinking about some of those redeeming qualities. I haven't seen many of them over the past year. He's been secretive and sullen and downright mean sometimes. But I know those qualities are there. "He's got them. And I know they're still there. Did I ever tell you about the first time he took me flying?"

Sophie snorted. "Is that a euphemism for something dirty, or do you mean in an actual plane?"

I laugh, and it feels really good and I find myself hoping that she gets as much from our friendship as I do. "Unfortunately, there's never been anything dirty. I mean the first time he took me up in his plane. His plane is named Sarah, by the way. It's named for his grandmother."

"I bet that was an awkward conversation."

I smile, remembering. "A smidge. But we had more important things to worry about at the time." I tell her about that day, and even though I spent most of it terrified, I had also felt so safe. Even that early into our partnership, I knew he would never let anything happen to me.

I know he's gone when I wake up the next morning. I don't know how I know, but I do. I know if I were to drive by his place, his car would be gone and his fridge would be cleaned out. He's never bought any plants that need to be watered, and I realize how loosely tied he is to this place that's been his home for so long. If he decided to stay in Pennsylvania or California, it would be so easy to do so. No wife or girlfriend to worry about, no children in school to think of. No job. No close, local friends. Just an apartment that would be easy to clean out and mark for sale. I briefly wonder if I'll ever see him again and even if he'll let me know that he isn't coming back.

I'm able to rid myself of those thoughts quickly, because deep down I know he would let me know. I know he would at least call me to tell me goodbye. No matter how uncomfortable things are now, we've meant too much to each other over the past eight years for it to end without even a goodbye.

Instead of focusing on Harm and his empty apartment, I think of everything I need to do in preparation to start my new job next week, and to move into my new house. I make a to-do list, and look up moving companies to move the furniture and larger items. But no matter how much I fill my head with, I can't stop thinking about Harm. I close my eyes and I can still feel his fingertips on mine, and it makes me shudder. If such gentle, innocent contact makes me feel this way, would I even be able to handle a more intimate touch?

I decide I can't take this anymore, and I stand up and rub my hands over my thighs before picking up the phone. I dial his number, and take a deep breath when I hear his voice. It's a recording, but the recording is different and I swallow back tears.

'This is Harm. I'm going to be out of town for a while. I'll check my email periodically, so if it's semi-important, write me instead.'

I clear my throat and wait for the beep. It takes longer than normal, and I wonder if there was something else he had thought about saying but didn't before ending the recording.

"Hey, it's me. I know you won't get this until you're back. But I…" I swallow hard. "I hope you find what you're looking for." I go silent for a moment, thinking of all of the things I want to say. But I can't say them to an answering machine he's not going to check for a while. I swallow again. "Be happy, Harm. I hope you call me when you get back."

End Part 14