0134 ZULU
Mac's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
There's a knock on my door and I swing it open to find standing uncomfortably on the other side.
"Harm!" I hope I don't sound as excited to him as I do to my own ears. "Back already?"
"What do you mean 'already'? It's 8:30."
"Is it?" Actually it's 8:34 and 17 seconds. I motion for him to come in and he does, walking stiffly to the couch. He shrugs painfully out of his jacket and lays it on the arm of the sofa. He stands over the sofa for a moment before dropping down on it with a loud groan.
"Are you okay?" I ask, picking up my empty bottle of Naya. "Want something to drink? To eat?"
"Maybe just a shot of morphine," he mutters.
I suppress the smile that threatens to surface. "How about some Aleve?"
"Okay."
I quickly grab two out of the bottle in the kitchen and bring him a glass of water to wash them down with. He moans again when I plop down on the couch beside him.
"I'm getting old," he says.
"You're 38," I reply, wondering where he's going with this.
"Thanks," he mutters dryly.
"What? You're still young."
He snorts. "I don't feel young. I hurt everywhere."
"Well, when was the last time you went skiing?"
He thinks for a moment. "Eleven years ago. Before my crash."
Now it's my turn to snort. "And you honestly wonder why you hurt?"
"Well, I didn't think I was that out of shape. I mean, I beat you in the charity thing."
"You didn't beat me, Harm," I remind him.
"Well, I tied you. Starting back six minutes, that's got to count for something."
Unbelievable.
"I thought you were tired of competing with me."
"I am."
Right. If that were the case for either one of us we wouldn't be using this Superbowl contest as a platform for love and war, but the fact is we love to compete against each other. As long as I'm beating Harm, and vice versa. It's one of the things that makes both our worlds go round. We should both just accept that.
He leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table and moans again.
"Here, turn around. Let me knead out the knots in your muscles. You'll feel better. Go on," I make a motion with my hand indicating he should turn. He does, with aggravated slowness.
I start kneading his stiff muscles between my fingers, and he moans every once in a while when I hit a particularly tense of sore spot. Finally, after about 43 minutes and 38 seconds, I seem to have gotten all the kinks out. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him and pull him back against me, nuzzling my lips against his neck and ear.
"Better?" I murmur, breathing in the masculine scent of him. It's not Brut. It's something different. Not bad, but not…him.
"Much," he returns. He leans into my embrace for a long while. Long enough for me to realize what I'm doing. I place another couple of kisses against his ear and cheek and sigh.
"It's getting late. You'd better get going."
"Yeah," he agrees after a moment, but he makes no move to pull away, and I don't release him from my grasp.
Finally, he does pull away, enough so that he can turn his head and plant a nice kiss on my cheek, and my arms fall away.
"Thanks, Mac," he whispers. I nod and stand up and hand him his coat.
"See you at work tomorrow, Flyboy." I'm wringing my hands and I hope he doesn't notice my nervousness.
"Night, Mac."
"Goodnight."
"Harm stares at me with the look of intensity that is so inherent in everything he desires and I find myself hoping he'll stay, hoping he'll sweep me up in his arms and do everything I've dreamed about him doing—or at least kissing me until I forget my own name. Even as I'm telling myself I'm crazy, his hand comes up to cup my cheek. Almost of its own volition, my own hand encircles his wrist and holds it, and I revel in his palm against my skin. His thumb sweeps over the skin below my eyes before he pulls his hand away.
"Sweet dreams, Ninja-girl."
Oh, they'll be good ones tonight.
Mac's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
There's a knock on my door and I swing it open to find standing uncomfortably on the other side.
"Harm!" I hope I don't sound as excited to him as I do to my own ears. "Back already?"
"What do you mean 'already'? It's 8:30."
"Is it?" Actually it's 8:34 and 17 seconds. I motion for him to come in and he does, walking stiffly to the couch. He shrugs painfully out of his jacket and lays it on the arm of the sofa. He stands over the sofa for a moment before dropping down on it with a loud groan.
"Are you okay?" I ask, picking up my empty bottle of Naya. "Want something to drink? To eat?"
"Maybe just a shot of morphine," he mutters.
I suppress the smile that threatens to surface. "How about some Aleve?"
"Okay."
I quickly grab two out of the bottle in the kitchen and bring him a glass of water to wash them down with. He moans again when I plop down on the couch beside him.
"I'm getting old," he says.
"You're 38," I reply, wondering where he's going with this.
"Thanks," he mutters dryly.
"What? You're still young."
He snorts. "I don't feel young. I hurt everywhere."
"Well, when was the last time you went skiing?"
He thinks for a moment. "Eleven years ago. Before my crash."
Now it's my turn to snort. "And you honestly wonder why you hurt?"
"Well, I didn't think I was that out of shape. I mean, I beat you in the charity thing."
"You didn't beat me, Harm," I remind him.
"Well, I tied you. Starting back six minutes, that's got to count for something."
Unbelievable.
"I thought you were tired of competing with me."
"I am."
Right. If that were the case for either one of us we wouldn't be using this Superbowl contest as a platform for love and war, but the fact is we love to compete against each other. As long as I'm beating Harm, and vice versa. It's one of the things that makes both our worlds go round. We should both just accept that.
He leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table and moans again.
"Here, turn around. Let me knead out the knots in your muscles. You'll feel better. Go on," I make a motion with my hand indicating he should turn. He does, with aggravated slowness.
I start kneading his stiff muscles between my fingers, and he moans every once in a while when I hit a particularly tense of sore spot. Finally, after about 43 minutes and 38 seconds, I seem to have gotten all the kinks out. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him and pull him back against me, nuzzling my lips against his neck and ear.
"Better?" I murmur, breathing in the masculine scent of him. It's not Brut. It's something different. Not bad, but not…him.
"Much," he returns. He leans into my embrace for a long while. Long enough for me to realize what I'm doing. I place another couple of kisses against his ear and cheek and sigh.
"It's getting late. You'd better get going."
"Yeah," he agrees after a moment, but he makes no move to pull away, and I don't release him from my grasp.
Finally, he does pull away, enough so that he can turn his head and plant a nice kiss on my cheek, and my arms fall away.
"Thanks, Mac," he whispers. I nod and stand up and hand him his coat.
"See you at work tomorrow, Flyboy." I'm wringing my hands and I hope he doesn't notice my nervousness.
"Night, Mac."
"Goodnight."
"Harm stares at me with the look of intensity that is so inherent in everything he desires and I find myself hoping he'll stay, hoping he'll sweep me up in his arms and do everything I've dreamed about him doing—or at least kissing me until I forget my own name. Even as I'm telling myself I'm crazy, his hand comes up to cup my cheek. Almost of its own volition, my own hand encircles his wrist and holds it, and I revel in his palm against my skin. His thumb sweeps over the skin below my eyes before he pulls his hand away.
"Sweet dreams, Ninja-girl."
Oh, they'll be good ones tonight.