A/N: Yes, another chapter of Trust. I have actually started the next chapters of Miracles and Perfect, but I feel stuck on those, so I guess I'll just have to heed the muse and work with what works. I hope it makes sense; I'm tired and don't feel like seriously editing right now. If any of you wanted to know, my house is still a pigsty, and I would pay one of you to come clean it out. It looks like a depressed hoarder lives here and my daughters keep creating…things.

Trust

Chapter 9: Breaking Glass

Mac carefully sat down on her bed. She felt achy and and nauseated, even a little dizzy. It frustrated her that she was so weak, though she still felt so much better than a couple of days ago. She had enough insight to know that at least part of it was due to the emotional aspects of the situation. Although it wasn't her typical response to traumatic or difficult situations, Mac had decided that this time she needed professional help. Things had gotten so out of control, and the one she'd always turned to in the past had made it clear after Paraguay he was no longer available. Yes, he'd just told her she could tell him anything; he even seemed sincere, but she'd closed herself off to him and it was too much of a risk to open up again.

"I can't do it," she murmured to herself as she lay back. Her grandmother's quilt was soft beneath her, and her tears started to fall, this time over losing her grandmother just as she was entering her teen years. Maybe if she'd had that gentle woman's guidance, her life wouldn't have taken such a turn after her mother abandoned her.

Mac hadn't intended to doze off again; yes, she felt like crap but not so much that she couldn't have stayed out in the living room and rested on the couch. She just couldn't face Harm anymore today. She thought about taking a shower or a bath but figured the sound of running water would bring Harm running, so she'd grabbed a book she'd been reading before all of this started instead. It now lay beside her, unopened, and it would likely stay that way. The plot no longer interested her, and she suspected she wouldn't be able to focus on anything deeper than a "Dick and Jane" book anyway. There was nothing else to do but sleep, and as she drifted off, her own version of the old children's books ran through her mind…

See Sarah hurt. See Harm run. Run Harm run.

See Sarah cry.

Cry Sarah cry…

"Why are you crying?"

Mac looked up to see Clay coming through her door. He'd called earlier to tell her he was back from his field assignment and was surprisingly chatty and energized; he even wanted to take her out to dinner. There was happiness and excitement, where previously there'd been none.

She, however, was not excited, happy, nor energized. She was miserable and broken, and in no way wanted to go out. Still, rather than stifle Clay and his new vigor, she'd agreed, gotten dressed, and now sat waiting for him. Waiting and thinking…thinking about how different last year was compared to now.

It was nearly Christmas again, and she didn't care. There was no tree in her apartment, no gifts purchased, no holiday music on the stereo. She knew she'd best get out there and buy gifts for AJ and Jimmy, but for the first time, she'd considered just giving them money. For the most part, she and the Roberts family were in a better place, but she didn't think it really had anything to do with her. They had just forgiven her because their hero had triumphantly returned. Harm had been restored to his rightful place, so the kingdom of JAG once again knew peace and prosperity. So what if Harm had thrown her alcoholism in her face in front of everyone in the bullpen last week. He was the charmed prince who had the love of his people and was a buffer between the gruff tyrannical king. Oh, Admiral Chegwidden wasn't really a tyrant, but he had been angry and barely approachable since she'd returned from Paraguay.

Harm had apologized in the days afterward, but the damage had been done and his apology had been perfunctory at best. She'd of course let him off the hook, but now she couldn't look at him without wanting to either cry or unleash her pent-up fury about…everything.

Clay was drinking more. The liquor was once again stashed away in her cupboards and her freezer, and she could barely stand to talk to him when she caught a whiff of the alcohol on his breath. He needed her though, needed her friendship. She was the only person he could talk to about Paraguay, and of course, there was the fact that he was the only friend she really had. You couldn't count little AJ after all, although she knew the four-year-old AJ's love and affection were true.

But why was she crying now? Today she'd come across her grandmother's old cookbook and she realized that she hadn't cooked anything out of it since she'd move to DC. She'd let Harm continue with erroneous belief that she couldn't cook, when in reality she just hated cooking for one. She didn't really know why she hadn't offered to cook for Harm…wait…she did. She'd offered to cook something one night when he was there working on a case with her, and she actually had the ingredients to make a couple of her favorite dishes. He'd laughed, asking her if grilled cheese or peanut butter and jelly were on the menu. She hurt, but laughed with him anyway, then told him grilled cheese and tomato soup was about all they had time for. He'd agreed to that, telling her over dinner that the soup and sandwich combo was a favorite comfort food, a meal his mother and grandmother had made for him when he was sick or sad. She knew he was sincere, and she knew her grilled cheese was better than average, so she felt somewhat mollified.

Later that night, he'd gone into the kitchen to get some juice, and returned with two bottles of the organic mix he'd turned her onto in one hand, her grandmother's handwritten cookbook in the other, and a puzzled look on his face.

"Hey, Mac? What's this?"

She'd looked up, her cheeks warming when she saw what was in his hand.

"Oh, I was just going through a few things the other day…found it and thought it should at least be in the kitchen."

"You weren't going to—"

"Harm, I haven't tried to make anything like that in years." Not entirely true; she'd made plenty from the book, always to the appreciation of with whomever she was sharing it. But that had been at least three or four years ago, so it wasn't a total lie.

"Mac…I saw some things in your fridge—"

"Harm, relax…I wasn't going to experiment on you."

"That's not—um, well maybe some night you could—"

"Harm, neither of us want that. Tell you what, why don't you take the book, and make me something from it."

Harm didn't say anything for a moment, and when Mac glanced up at him and he was looking at her oddly.

"What?"

"It's just…I think this book is very special to you. Maybe we could try something from it together?" He actually looked somewhat hopeful, but she shook her head.

"Honestly, Harm, that type of food really isn't a favorite of mine."

"But—"

"Come on, Harm, we need to get back to work. Put the book down and give me that juice. I'm thirsty."

Harm hesitated, then set the cookbook on one of her end tables. He sat back down, gave her the bottle of juice, and they went to work. Harm was pensive the rest of the night, however, and she found him flipping through the book again when she'd returned from the bathroom. He quickly set it aside, and they returned to the case at hand.

After he'd left that night, she buried her grandmother's cookbook in a drawer, cleared out the refrigerator of all the food she'd bought to cook tonight, and dropped it all down the garbage chute. It was a colossal waste, but she knew it would sit there and rot in her fridge, for any desire to use it had fled with Harm's comments. Deep down, she knew she shouldn't let that bother her. She should have just made it for herself or told him to shove it and made it for him anyway to show him what she was a perfectly capable chef. She should have said and done a great many things, but it really wasn't worth the effort.

It never was.

"Sarah? Why are you crying?"

"What?" Lost in thought, she hadn't remembered Clay was there.

Clay stepped in front of her. "I said, why. Are. You. Crying?" He spoke slowly and deliberately as if he were speaking to a simpleton, a simpleton he was concerned about, but a simpleton nonetheless.

Mac shrugged.

"It's Harm again, isn't it." He sounded irritated and sympathetic at the same time; none of his questions or responses ever were simple.

"No." Yes, actually, but it's not like I'm going to tell you that, Clay, she thought to herself. Clay didn't like it when she talked about Harm. He felt Harm didn't deserve a second thought with how he'd behaved. He was right, she supposed, but Harm's treatment combined with the pain she felt at their estrangement made it hard to forget him. She still missed him, or rather she missed the old Harm, and those feelings apparently weren't going to go away.

Clay raised an eyebrow at her. Clearly, he didn't believe her.

"No, Clay," she went on. "I was just thinking about my grandmother. I found her old cookbook, recipes she'd written out by hand, and I just…"

Clay shrugged out of his coat and laid it over a chair. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really. Let's just go out. Where to?" She met Clay's eyes and saw him staring at her with his brow wrinkled and eyes wide.

"Uh, Sarah, you might want to look in a mirror first."

"Why? What's the problem?" she asked as she stood and looked at the mirror hanging by the door. The face that greeted her was not the face she'd seen in the bathroom thirty minutes ago as she finished readying herself for a night out. Her eyes were puffy and ringed with smeared mascara, and when she looked down, she saw that sitting had caused her dress to wrinkle. "Oh…I see what you mean. I'm sorry, Clay. I'll go change and freshen up." She turned to go to her bedroom, but Clay was there, blocking her path.

"Sarah, it's okay. Why don't we just eat in. I'll go pick it up. I was just going to take you that French place anyway."

Again? Sarah thought to herself. She was weary of the place and rather longed for a Beltway Burger. Still, it was Webb's day, so who was she to deny him his favorites.

"Sounds good, Clay. Just get my usual."

"I'll do that. Why don't you get into something more comfortable, and I'll be back before you know it."

"Okay, Clay. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Sarah." He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, but Mac wasn't paying attention and turned her head at the wrong time. Rather than kiss her cheek, he caught her lips and then drew back in surprise. Seconds went by while Mac stared at Clay wide-eyed. Her heart pounded with anxiety; she didn't know if this was something she wanted but she couldn't deny that they were growing closer. She didn't move away when Clay leaned in for another kiss, and then with just a smile, he drew back and left for the restaurant.

While he was gone, Mac kept playing the kisses over and over in her mind. They were nice and she felt something like warmth sluice through her. Maybe it was time to move on from Harm. She already knew Clay wanted her; he'd told her as much in Paraguay. He'd been a good friend…

God, she was so confused.

Mac had changed her clothes and washed her face and while she waited for Clay to return, she set the table, filling glasses with water and hoping Clay would refrain from drinking. She prayed he at least didn't drink while on a mission. Here it was every night. He always said he needed something to relax him, or that he'd had a hard day, and needed a drink to wash it all away, or that he'd had a good day and needed to celebrate. She remembered that about her drinking days, how she'd use any excuse to justify downing more alcohol, and alarm bells constantly rang in her head. Get away! They told her. But she couldn't. She and Clay needed each other. Perhaps she could use her experience with alcohol addiction to help him through his. She owed it to him.

A few minutes later, Clay was back, the food set out, and Mac did her best eat her food, while he, of course, did his best to make it through another bottle of cana.

After dinner, Mac and Clay had put on a movie. He had almost immediately fallen asleep, snoring enough that it made it impossible to focus on the crime drama she'd rented earlier that day. She supposed she'd try to watch it again tomorrow and, lacking anything else to do, she drifted off to sleep.

"Sarah. Sarah, honey, wake up. Movie's over."

Mac woke slowly, resenting the interruption in her slumber, but Clay's persistence gradually roused her. She glared at him owlishly, and he gave her a sheepish grin.

"Wake up, sleepy head." His words were a bit slurred, and that more than anything made her want to stay asleep. Clay would have none of it however, and she felt him pulling her into a sitting position. "You want to…could you call me a cab? I probably shouldn't drive."

You woke me up for that? Call yourself, Webb, she groused to herself, but nodded anyway and reached for her phone. Clay's hand covered hers before she could open it and dial, however, and she pushed down a flash of irritation.

"Hey, Sarah, can I just crash here? It's pretty late, otherwise I'd have Mother send a car, and it'll just take more of my night to wait for a cab, plus I won't need to come back here for my car tomorrow. Please?"

Mac would have preferred to be alone right then, but she didn't have any real objection to him staying. "Sure, Clay. I'll go get some sheets for the couch." She stood up with a yawn and made to go to the hall linen closet where she stored her extra sheets, but Clay grabber hand and stopped her. He stood up, looking vaguely unsteady, still holding her hand. "Sarah, wait."

He slowly moved to stand in front of her, gripping her hand and then her arm to maintain his balance. "You, know Sarah," he said, stepping closer to her. "I really liked kissing you tonight."

"I, uh, liked it too, Clay." And she did, after a fashion, it was nice to be wanted.

"May I kiss you again?" Clay asked, rather shyly.

Mac nodded after a few heartbeats, and then she once again felt his lips on hers. Her eyes fluttered shut, and soon she felt Clay's tongue begging entrance into her mouth. She opened for him, then felt it against her own tongue and Clay deepened the kiss.

He tasted of alcohol and a cloying sweetness that came from the cana he'd been drinking all evening. It made her stomach lurch and she tried to back away. Clay, however, had other ideas. His arms snaked around her and pulled her flush against his body. His hand strayed down to her six, and the other held her in place. His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, then to her neck. He licked and sucked on her skin, and though she tried to resist, he kept going. It was when he felt his hand slip under her shirt and begin to work the hooks of her bra that she found the strength to push him away. He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself.

"Sarah?"

"Clay, I—I'm sorry. I'm not ready for this. I'm sorry." She could still taste the alcohol he'd consumed on her lips, and she was afraid she might vomit. Staying sober wasn't easy; it never had been, but for the most part she'd conquered that demon. With what happened in Paraguay, she knew she was at risk of falling off the wagon, so she was extra careful, had even gone to a few AA meetings for some quiet support. She doubted practically living with an alcoholic was something the program would have recommended. She didn't want to be reminded of her shortcomings, and she truly hated the scent of cana.

"Oh…okay, Sarah. I'm sorry. I-I'll go. I didn't mean—"

"No, Clay. Stay, please. I'm just not ready for more right now. We're both still dealing with other things, and that's no way to begin a relationship. Being intimate right now wouldn't be either. You understand?" His eyes were rather blurry and she prayed she was getting through to him. She couldn't deal with this now, but she didn't want her reticence to do more than kiss to ruin their friendship.

"Sarah, of course I do. Let's just forget about this, okay?"

"Okay, Clay. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Friends?"

She stepped forward to wrap her arms around him. "Always, Clay."

Later that night, she'd gone to the kitchen to grab a little snack, not having eaten much of her supper. She checked on Clay, who was snoring away, but the bottle of cana that had been at least half full when she'd gone to bed was now empty.

With tears in her eyes and something like fear in her heart, along with growing fury, she picked up the bottle and his glass and took them back to the kitchen. She barely managed to keep herself from smashing the bottle into the wall. None of this will end well, she told herself.

She only wished she'd known how true her prediction was.

Mac awoke in the dark and listened to the silence to see if Harm was still moving about. She heard nothing…nothing but her rapidly increasing heartbeat causing her to hear her pulse in her ears. She was mad. Angry. Furious. Why hadn't she told Webb to go? Told him she couldn't and shouldn't be around an alcoholic at that point in her life. Told him to hit the road before taking him into her bed and conceiving an unwanted child…unwanted, that is, until she'd awakened briefly in the PACU to the nurse telling her everything had gone well, that it was all over. Grief had overwhelmed her, so much that she'd gladly accepted something for pain because she knew it would send her back to oblivion.

Yes, Mac was mad—at everyone and everything. Webb, Harm, the admiral, Bud and Harriet, and mostly herself. No, wait…she was mostly angry at Webb, and if he were before her right now, she didn't know how she would be able to keep herself from ripping out his eyes. Or maybe his intestines…so she could shove them down his throat and choke him. No…she'd make him swallow his testicles too, then let him bleed out after the coup de grace…taking a hack saw and slowly, slowly slicing off his dick.

Oh god…oh god…

Mac was scaring herself. She'd never thought such thought before about a specific person and she already knew she was capable of killing in cold blood. Sadik had proven that, though she hadn't felt this enraged at that son of a bitch. Her hatred of him had been appropriate, but she'd maintained control of her smoldering fury. She'd killed him for Harm and Webb. Now, she felt out of control, and she hated it. This wasn't her, and now she was furious again that Webb made her feel this way. It was a never-ending cycle.

She needed to calm down. Harm would probably sense something was off and she did not want to discuss this with him. She forced herself out of bed and went into the bathroom to splash some cold water in her face. Her too-quick movements made her dizzy and almost faint, so rather than just splash the water on her, she decided to wet a washcloth with cold, cold water and put it on her neck. Extra cloths were under her sink, so she carefully lowered herself down to pull open the cabinet door. To her annoyance, her unsteady hands managed to knock the stack over, and that's when she saw it.

A half-full bottle of the hated cana. Stashed away by Webb so he'd have something to go to in the middle of the night.

Mac saw red. Unable to stop herself, she yanked out the bottle and, with an anguished cry, she threw it as hard as she could at the opposite wall. The sweet liquor splashed back at her as the glass shattered and bounced off the wall.

The sound made her come back to herself, and she panicked. She prayed Harm hadn't heard, prayed she could pick all of this up before he came running. She scrambled off the floor and grabbed for the shards of glass that had spread around her, starting to sob as the glass sliced into her fingers.

Harm sat up from his makeshift bed on Mac's couch. Something didn't feel right. He listened carefully to the darkness but heard nothing, and yet his heart started to pound. "Mac?" he softly called, but of course he didn't get a response. He started to lie back down, telling himself he was just being paranoid…and then found himself leaping out of his bed and running toward Mac's room. He'd heard her cry out, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Her anguished sobs filled the air, and it felt like an eternity before he reached her bedroom door and grabbed for the knob. He was relieved she hadn't locked it and easily flung it open. A sliver of light guided him toward the slightly opened bathroom door, and this time he was gentle as he eased it open.

There, sitting amongst broken glass and amber liquid, some of which was also dripping down the wall, was Mac, sobbing while blood dripped from her hands, the sweet, miserable scent of cana filling the air.

End Chapter Nine