Title: Mine

Summary: Mac has a stalker… (Harm/Mac Romance, Drama)

Part Eleven – Harm

Saturday, March 9, 2002

I don't go home when I leave her place. I can't deal with being somewhere with so many reminders of her. Instead, I end up at the airfield with my beloved plane. This Sarah doesn't let me down or break my heart. This Sarah makes me feel alive. I go through my pre-flight checklist, do my damnedest to avoid making small talk with anyone else who had the same idea, and it isn't too long before I'm fueled up, cleared for take-off, and the plane is lifting into the clear blue sky.

Being in the air is usually rejuvenating and freeing, but not this time. This time my mind is on her, and all I can think about is her accusation. I love her; I would do anything for her. And for her to believe that I could do something so cruel and deceptive just to get my way makes me wonder if the past six years have meant anything and if she even knows me at all.

I stay in the air until the sun begins to set, and then I maneuver the plane back towards the hangar and get her tucked away for the night. I feel my phone vibrate in my coat pocket and grimace when I look at the screen. Sturgis. I silence the call because I don't want to speak to him or anyone else right now. The call ends and I open the phone and frown. I have twelve missed calls – all from her – and four voicemails. For a moment, I begin to panic. What if her stalker made his move, and she needed help? I take a deep breath and begin to listen to the messages. All four are from her, but she seems like she only wants to talk and apologize. I delete each one and shove the phone back into my pocket, head to my SUV and begin the drive back to the city.

I need a drink.

A familiar form slides onto the bar stool beside mine, and I grimace. "What are you doing here?"

Sturgis raises a hand, signaling the bartender. "I heard you were upset." My jaw tightens, knowing the same person who told him I was upset is the reason that I'm upset. He shrugs and nods at the approaching bartender. "Beer, please. Whatever IPA is on tap." The bartender nods, turns around to fill a glass and then sets it along with a paper coaster in front of Sturgis.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

He shrugs. "Mac called. She said you were upset," he repeats. "I went by your place first. When you weren't there, I came here."

My jaw clenches again, and I down the remainder of my drink and gesture to the bartender. "Well, when you report back, you can tell her that I'm fine."

Sturgis rolls his eyes and sips his beer. He doesn't say anything while my empty glass is filled with another two fingers of bourbon, and he stays silent while I take a drink. "I'm not reporting back to her. I'm here because she told me what happened and asked if I could make sure you were okay." I don't say anything, and he sighs heavily. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Harm…"

I shake my head and take another drink. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm sure she told you what happened – what she said. How am I supposed to be okay with that? What do you want from me?"

He's quiet for a while, and then he shakes his head. "She's going through a lot, Harm."

I spin to face him, my eyes narrowing. "Are you really here to defend her? To defend what she accused me of?"

"I'm not here to defend her." His demeanor is calm, and I feel like that's making me even more agitated. "And she didn't ask me to." He taps his fingers against the glass and sighs again. "But she's scared."

"I'm scared too," I say, and drink a little bit more.

"I get that," he says, and I shake my head.

"No," I say. "You don't get it. We've been through this before, you know. Her stalker killed her ex, vandalized her apartment, installed a listening device, and kidnapped her. We weren't even together then, but I know what it's like to nearly lose her, and I can't go through that again. So, no. You don't get it." I think of Coster, and then I think of Diane's dead body, and I feel nauseous in a way that has nothing to do with the amount of bourbon running through me. "And neither does she, apparently."

"Harm, all of that is horrible. It is. What she said was terrible, but…." He trails off and shakes his head. "I don't know; maybe a part of her wanted it to be you. At least if it were you, it would have just been a stupid plot by someone who loves her to keep her safe. But him… He's a stranger and obsessed with her, which must be terrifying for her." He's not saying anything I don't know, and he continues. "She'd be pissed at you, but she'd get over it."

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, and I pull it free and glance at the screen before dropping it on the bar top. It's her, and I picture her sitting at home while my phone dances around. It serves her right, I think. She can sit at home and worry about me for a change.

"Is that her," he asks. I nod, and he frowns. "You're not going to answer it?"

"Nope. Nothing to say to her," I say, and I down the rest of my glass. I gesture to the bartender again and pretend not to notice as he frowns and glances at Sturgis. He fills the glass, and I stand. I feel a little unsteady, but I do my damnedest not to let it show. "I need the bathroom."

When I return to my bar stool, there are baskets of chips and carrot sticks in front of my seat, and a tall glass of water next to the bourbon. I get that my friend is concerned about me; I'm not that drunk after all, but the food and water still make me scowl. I nudge the water aside and sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn and appreciating how every sip makes it easier not to care about what she's doing or how she's feeling.

I end up eating most of the food and drinking the glass of water. But I drink the bourbon, and I know that I am in no shape to drive. I hand over my credit card and sign my name in a barely discernable scrawl before following Sturgis to his car.

"I'll bring you over here tomorrow to pick up your car," he says while helping me into his car.

"Okay," I mumble. I lower my head against his leather headrest and close my eyes. We're halfway to my apartment when I lift my head and watch the city pass us by. I'm a little drunk, and a lot pissed off, but I don't want to go home. I want to see her. "I need to see Mac," I say. My words slur just a bit, making both Sturgis and I wince. "Can you take me to her place?"

"No," he says.

"I need to see her," I repeat.

"You don't," he says. I open my mouth to argue, and she shakes his head. "I'm not taking you to her place," he says. "You're drunk, and she's a recovering alcoholic and doesn't need to see you like this."

My face heats at the reminder. How could I have forgotten that? He's right, and I have enough awareness to know I don't want her to ever see me like this. "Yeah, okay," I say.

Sturgis loosens his grip on the steering wheel. "You can see her tomorrow," he says softly. "You'll drink a lot of water, get some sleep, and then you can go over there." He turns left onto my street, and we're quiet while he pulls into my parking lot. "I'll help you upstairs," he says.

I open the door but wait until he comes around to help me out. I manage to stand, and then he puts his hands against my back and gives me a gentle nudge. "Come on," he commands. "One foot in front of the other."

It seemingly takes forever to make it to my elevator, and I slump against the wall once we're inside. "I love her," I say.

Sturgis raises an eyebrow. "She loves you too."

"How do you know that?"

"She told me." He gives me a tiny smile.

"How could she think I'd do that to her?"

He pats my back gently. "She's just scared, Harm." I know he's told me the same thing many, many times over the night, but this time I'm just drunk enough – and pathetic enough – that it hits a bit different. "She's scared, but she loves you, and she's so sorry that she hurt you."

I close my eyes as the elevator comes to a jerking stop. "I love her," I repeat.

"Come on," Sturgis says. "Let's get you inside." We go inside, and he helps me out of my jacket and onto the couch. I flop down and close my eyes. He disappears but returns a moment later, and I hear the sound of a heavy glass and what sounds like a bottle of pills making contact with the coffee table. "Aspirin and water are on the table," he says. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No," I say. "Thanks, Sturgis."

"Anytime, man."

It's been a long time since I've been drunk, and I feel like death when I wake up the following day. I stumble bleary-eyed to the bathroom, brush my teeth, gargle with Listerine, and then brush my teeth again. I run a shower that's so hot I wince when I step beneath the water. I wash my hair and body, then stand there until the water runs cold.

After the shower, I dress quickly, take some aspirin, drink some more water, and then head out into the frigid March morning. My SUV isn't there, and I'm on the verge of calling the police when I remember that Sturgis brought me home last night. "Shit," I mutter, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my cell phone.

"You alive," he asks instead of a greeting.

"I'm alive," I say. "Can you come to pick me up?"

"I'm actually on your side of town; I'll be there in a few minutes."

I hang up and move back to the stoop of my building. I sit down on the step and wait for Sturgis. I toy with my phone and contemplate calling Mac, but I don't want to talk to her about any of this over the phone. I hear tires hit the patch of loose gravel I've been calling the city about for weeks and look up to see Sturgis' car approaching. I pull myself up and make my way to the passenger side.

"Thanks," I say.

"Anytime," he says. He considerately reaches over, turns down the radio volume, and glances at me. "To the bar?"

I shake my head and immediately regret the move. "No. Can you take me to Mac's place?"

"Harm," he starts, but I shake my head again and wince.

"I need to talk to her," I say. "I don't want to waste time going to one side of town to my car and then another side of town to her place. I can get a cab to the bar later."

He relents and nods, and I watch as he turns and begins to make the drive to Georgetown.

I straighten in my seat when Mac's building comes into view. There isn't any parking nearby, so he pulls into the loading zone and puts the car in park. "Are you sure about this?" I nod, and he lets out a breath. "Okay, then. Good luck, buddy."

"Thanks, Sturg." I open the car door and gingerly step out. I shut the door behind me, give him a curt nod, and watch as he drives away. I make my way up to her front door and knock gently. She doesn't answer, so I knock again – a little more forcefully this time. There is still no answer, and I feel the panic begin to build. I reach into my pocket, pull out my key ring, and put my fingers on the key with the green topper. I put the key in the lock, but I can't bring myself to turn it and open the door. Usually, I wouldn't hesitate. And since we've been a couple, we've welcomed ourselves into one another's homes. But now – after yesterday and her accusation – it doesn't feel quite right.

"You can let yourself in, you know."

I let go of the key and turn at the sound of her voice. She's carrying two grocery bags, and I unlock the door and open it for her. "Thanks," she says softly as she moves past me. I shut and lock the door and follow her into the kitchen. She begins to unload the bags, and the gentlemanly part of my nature makes me want to help, but instead, I clasp my hands behind my back and watch. Once the bags are empty and she's folded her reusable totes and returned them to her pantry, she turns back to me.

"I'm so sorry," she starts. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I said it, and I'm sorry that I thought it. But I had to ask." She looks at me, but I stay silent, and she continues. "Once the thought popped into my head, I knew I had to ask. I would have thought about it constantly if I hadn't."

"I would never do anything like that. Ever!"

She shakes her head and flattens her palms against the counter. "You would, though!" Her voice rises just a bit, and I wince. "Harm, you fired a weapon in a courtroom! You stole a jet in Russia! You were willing to kill the man who killed Diane."

"Mac, for the love of God, please keep it down just a bit."

She frowns and cocks her head to the side. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just hungover."

She blanches and shakes her head. "You never get drunk."

I roll my eyes, aware that getting drunk is out of character. "Yes, I know that. Which is probably why I feel especially shitty."

"Want some coffee?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm here to talk about yesterday. I don't need you to take care of me."

She visibly deflates even more and leans against her kitchen counter. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I mean, I guess being stalked turns me into an asshole, although this time, I don't get to blame it on falling off the wagon."

I narrow my eyes. "Have you thought about it?" She frowns, and I clarify. "Thought about having a drink, I mean."

Mac bites her lower lip and then shakes her head. "I didn't get drunk last time because of Coster. At least not solely because of Coster. I turned to vodka because I watched Dalton die. I sat in that alley with his head in my lap and his blood on my hands and watched as he died right there. And all because of me."

"You didn't answer my question," I say.

She lets out a breath and shakes her head. "No. I haven't thought about having a drink."

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I shove my hands in my pockets. "I know I've done extreme things in the past to prove a point or to get my way. But I would never do that to you. I would never do anything to make you more afraid than you already are."

"I know that," she says softly. "Logically, I know that. But the thought worked its way into my head, and I couldn't get rid of it. After you left, I – I decided I wanted it to be you. I would have been so goddamned angry, but… God, Harm..." She trails off and runs a hand through her hair.

"You haven't seemed all that afraid," I say, thinking about how casual she's been this whole time.

"Of course I'm afraid!" Her volume increases drastically, and I wince. "I'm afraid. I've been afraid for two months now. I'm afraid for my own safety, and I'm fucking terrified for yours. He was in my home – in my bedroom. Do you have any idea how violated I feel? So yes, if you had been the one to come into my house and take a few things and go through some things to frighten me, I would have been pissed, but right now, being pissed sounds so much better than being terrified." Her voice breaks, and she wraps her arms around herself. "I'm so sorry, Harm."

"I know," I say.

She nods, reaches for a paper towel, and dabs at her face. "Where does this leave us," she asks. She swallows hard, and I'm mesmerized by the movement in her throat. "Are we – is this over?"

I'm still hurt and angry, and over the past twenty-four hours, I've wondered the same thing myself. But being here with her makes the question an easy one to answer. I love her, and I don't want this to be it. If this thing ends, I want it to end because we're not right for one another or because we want different things out of life, not because of this asshole and the fear he's stoked in us.

"I don't want us to be over," I say.

She lets out a shaky breath and straightens. "Can I hold you?"

She's never asked to touch me, and the uncertainty in her voice makes my heart ache. "Yes." She steps close, and I wrap my arms around her. She lets out another shaky breath that turns into a sob and digs her fingers into my shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," she says again.

"I know," I say into her hair. "I'm still mad at you."

She pulls back and looks at me. "I know."

Her wet brown eyes make any remaining hostility shatter, and I gently kiss her forehead and pull her into my arms again.

Unacceptable.

He is unacceptable.

I thought she and I were finally free from him. When he stormed out earlier, I thought it was finally my time; our time. I know she was sad – I watched her cry through the open window. Sitting in the park across the street with binoculars killed me when all I wanted to do was comfort her, but I figured I had time. He was seemingly out of the picture now, so there was no need to rush. I could woo her, show her what it was like to have the attention of a true gentleman.

He may wear a fancy uniform, but he's not a true gentleman. He's too much of an asshole to help her with the grocery bags.

But he came back. The fucker came back. And she took him back. I watched, appalled, as she welcomed him into her home. I watched as she cried, and he held her.

And then I watched until he pulled the heavy curtains closed and barred me from her world.

And now I know I have to make my move and tell her – show her – how I feel. She obviously needs me as much as I need her, and I'm not going to make either of us wait any longer.

End Part 11