TIDAL
By Slippin' Mickeys
red_phile@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13
Other Yada: In the first couple of chapters.
Notes: This is the final chapter in my first JAGfic! I really do hope you enjoy and let me know that you did! Special thanks to usnavychic for the killer beta. I survived my first foray into JAG fandom. I have to thank everyone for all of their support and great reviews! I've been living on them!
PART FOUR
Some people were born to it. Things just happened to them. Whether it was an astrological assignment of being born under a certain sign, or a scientific law that hadn't yet been discovered, there were souls out there that happenstance followed around like a forlorn puppy. Harm was one of them.
In his case, it was usually danger or drama that found him, and he seemed to be forever tethered between the two, east of the Rock and west of the Hard Place.
Since being partnered with him, Mac had been sucked inexorably into his vortex of episodic phenomenon, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the unscrupulous nature of its assignment. She likely hadn't pictured herself in a future of such blatant unpredictability. He knew she wanted a normal life; a long and distinguished career in law, a husband, children, PTA meetings and anniversary diamonds, all safely enclosed in the proverbial white picket fence of American domesticity.
She had to know what she was getting into-choosing a future with him in it- she was a smart woman. The knowledge that she'd done so anyway both broke his heart and buoyed it at the same time.
As he watched her sleep next to him, he brought a hand unconsciously to his heart. He'd never before considered love a physical sensation. This woman, he thought to himself, he ached for her. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
They'd each fought against the singular attraction that they felt for each other. They'd tried ignoring it and masking it and burying it. They'd each tried replacing it. With every attempt at denial it seemed to manifest itself more aggressively until finally they gave in to it. After such a long fight, Harm was a bit thrown at how easy that had been.
This however, was the challenge; the living of it. Playing it any other way would have been safe. You couldn't get burned if you stood outside the fire.
He remembered cases they'd worked and endless hours they'd put in. Their lives together had held more than a fair amount of adventure and excitement, but the quiet times were the ones he truly coveted.
When they worked late and the office had emptied out, he'd sometimes put on some music. He kept several CDs in his desk drawer, but Mac had always been partial to Paul Simon's Graceland. One day he'd take her to Africa, to Memphis.
Two weeks ago, he thought, he was in the wrong lane, but going in the right direction. He'd been taking it slow with Mac for years, being ever so careful. He swallowed a breath and steeled himself. Overcorrection could make you lose control.
Angels in the architecture, they reached for lo mien.
He rolled out of bed and watched her sleep, standing guard over her dreams. He would hold on to this moment, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
She came awake slowly, stretching like a cat languorously in the warmth of the bed. She knew without looking that he was no longer laying next to her. She could hear him in the kitchen, trying to be quiet in that loud way of men.
It was odd, how many times she'd been in his apartment, and yet this vantage point was completely foreign to her. She debated as to whether or not she should get up, but decided against it. The view may be strange, but she liked it. Surrounded here by his things, she felt-somewhat abstractly- as if he'd finally let her in.
There was an especially loud crack from the kitchen and she heard his muffled curse. A moment later he approached and she pretended to be asleep. The mattress dipped near her hip as he sat down next to her.
"Faker," he said a moment later, and she smiled and opened her eyes.
He was smiling down at her himself, his eyes crinkled with affection. She returned his grin, feeling somewhat shy and took the steaming mug he held toward her, shifting up the bed to sit.
"Did I wake you?" He said, looking pained at the thought.
"Not at all," she replied, burying her nose in the aromatic steam of her mug.
He took a sip from his own, and they each sat somewhat sheepishly as a silence stretched on.
This was ridiculous, Mac thought to herself, considering some of the things they'd done the night before. Neither of them had been shy.
She set her mug down on the nightstand next to her and leaned forward, letting the sheet fall away from her chest. She pushed her lips against his and stole one quick kiss, lingering in front of him for a moment.
"Good morning," she said, and then leaned back, enjoying the startled, pleased look on his face.
"Good morning," he returned, setting down his own mug and looking at her. She felt as if he were drinking her in instead.
He rose and reached down, squeezing her knee through the sheets. He moved to the other side of the bed and flopped down next to her.
"How did you sleep?" He asked, propping himself up on his elbow.
"I didn't much," she said slyly, "but you already knew that. You were there."
He grinned at that, looking smug. He ran a hand over his chest contentedly.
"You look good when you wake up," he said without preamble.
"This isn't the first time you've seen me first thing in the morning," she said.
He reached out and took her hand in his. It was impossibly warm beneath her fingertips and soft as silk.
"Not like this," he said.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
Sometimes, in flashes, she'd wonder at the thought of him wanting her the way he did. Like all women, she was never quite convinced at her own attractiveness, no matter how much evidence to the contrary was presented her. That he-this man who was himself alluring beyond all fairness, who always seemed to be preoccupied with matters far more important than love- would want her with the passion he seemed to, stunned her.
It was also quite confidence-inspiring. She felt courageous and cavalier with the knowing of it.
She lured him into the rain. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
Mac was standing in front of his big plate-glass window wearing one of his button-down shirts that was three sizes too big. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"It stopped raining," she said, leaning back into him. He felt somewhat disappointed. The rain made his apartment feel more secluded and cozy.
He didn't say anything, but sighed.
"What was that for?" She asked him, catching his eyes in the reflection from the window.
"It was a sigh of contentment," he answered, burying his nose in her hair.
"Do you mind giving me a ride to my place this morning?" She asked him, "I want to pick up some things."
"What kinds of things?" He said, beginning to nibble at her neck.
"Clothes, mostly," she said, distracted.
"I don't know. I don't intend to let you keep them on for very long."
"Confident, aren't we?" She said, suddenly stepping away from him playfully. He leaned forward after her as if magnetized. "Come on, Rabb," she said, sauntering off to where her discarded uniform waited, "be a gentleman."
She purposefully walked with her hips swaying a little more than usual and his thoughts took a decidedly ungentlemanly turn.
An hour later he found himself standing in her living room while she shuffled about in her bedroom, taking more time to pack for a day and a half than any Marine should. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
How is it that he deserves this, he wonders later, dripping wet and sodden. He can feel bubbles squish their way up between his toes whenever he takes a step. How did he manage to find what others have searched their entire lives for? His clothes, soaking wet, stick to him like a second skin and he sends up a prayer of thanks. He's clearly one lucky son of a bitch.
"Ready," she said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom with a small backpack slung over one shoulder.
He turned to her from examining a framed picture of Chloe that he'd seen a million times. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the promise of more foul weather. Harm recollected vaguely that the sailors in Chicago had called it the Witch of November.
That flare of energy he got at seeing her out of uniform was back again and this time it passed between them. He opened the door for her and led her out without a word.
They paused in the entranceway of Mac's building. Somewhere in between her apartment and the front door, the rain had begun anew. Harm had parked just north of her building, not two blocks away. He turned to her.
"What do you think, Marine? Do we make a run for it?"
She smiled at him then.
"Haven't we already?" She said, taking a step backward, pushing the door open with her elbow.
He cocked his head at her, squinting in question. She flashed him one more smile and then stepped into the rain, turning south.
He'd taken risks in his life and she'd pulled his can out of the fire more than once. He knew he was a brave man, but admitted (if only to himself) that perhaps he could use a bit of work on his impulse control. He had no wish to lie in Flanders Field.
He stood a moment watching her from the relative safety of the building's entrance. He could work on impulse control tomorrow-he followed her into the downpour. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
She heard his splashy footfalls behind her and turned, waiting for him to catch up. The rain was pouring down, she could feel the water soaking her shoulders and dripping off her hair. He grabbed her arm as he reached her, but didn't try to lead her anywhere.
"What are we doing out here?" He asked, standing in front of her. Beside her.
She finally realized that that was the difference between him and everyone else she'd ever loved. He stood beside her. He always had.
"Well, I was going to ask you a question," she said, "but you already answered it."
His shoulders were hunched up against the cold and wet and he gave her a questioning look.
"You followed me," she said simply.
A gust of wind came in then, bringing still more rain with it, now coming in almost sideways.
"I'd follow you anywhere," he said.
She was soaking wet and giddy. She grinned like an idiot.
"You're crazy!" He shouted above the roar of the downpour around them. She knew he'd never seen her so madcap and juvenile. These were the things he invoked in her. Insane crashes of love, she couldn't help but act her shoe size.
"I know!" She yelled back, thunder punctuating her admission.
She felt crazy. Wild, happy. A laugh bubbled up from inside her.
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like a soaked cat; miserable and bewildered. But there was something else in his look, too. An air of intrigue and affection surrounded him and it made her knees a little bit weak.
Impossibly, the rain seemed to fall harder in a great whoosh around them.
"I love you!" She suddenly shouted, almost bending double in the effort to be heard above the din of rushing water.
"What?" He yelled above the roar.
"I said I love you!" She yelled again, laughing.
A smile bloomed across his face, even as rain poured down it in rivulets. He shook his head, laughing, and then took one great stride to her, catching her mouth with his.
They walked down the street, caught in the rain, caught up with each other. Too warmed by the look of the other to be cold. If anyone bothered to pay them any attention, they'd see nothing but two people smiled upon by Eros.
He took her home and wrapped her in a blanket and she decided that love was this, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
"You're like a clarinet sounds," he says to her in the night.
She looks skeptical in the glow of a single burning candle.
"Have you ever dropped acid, Harm?" She asks, but he refuses to let her break the trance she's charmed him into.
"That's what I think of when I think of you. You're like a clarinet sounds, like a Miles Davis song."
If his declaration is a little weird, it's unfailingly sweet. She feels tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she won't let them fall.
"You're quiet, and calming. A little bit sad," he says, running a fingertip down her temple, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "But beautiful. And different. I lose myself in you."
It was a midnight admission, pillow talk of the hopelessly fallen. There was a magic in candlelight as well-she knew she wasn't likely to get professions like this often-she looks into his eyes and holds it with her.
"Where?" She whispers, the question barely audible.
He touches a finger gently over her heart. "Here," he says, and moves it to her lips. "And here." She closes her eyes to that. "Everywhere."
Knowing him was like eating an orange, she thinks. You have to peel away a lot to get to the center of him, but what you find there is wholly worthwhile.
Tangy, sweet, and a little bit messy.
"I know," she says, "you're it for me, too." ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
In flight school he had a poem from Yeats taped to his bathroom mirror. He used to read it while brushing his teeth. "I know that I shall meet my fate, Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love." If he still had the sheet somewhere, he would throw it out. He stood watch now with his heart alone and he'd met his fate with two feet planted firmly on the ground. Yeats probably hadn't had Service A's and pumps in mind, but he could split the difference.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
What the Admiral said tomorrow didn't matter. What did matter was that they each had dreamed for themselves a future that was fulfilling and exciting and full of the things that make life worth living, and now their reality held the promise of even more. Few are blessed enough to live life knowing what they have, and fewer still are satisfied by it.
Whatever did happen was fated to be, she knew this intrinsically. But she also knew that her future had Harm in it, whether that be in a professional capacity or not. That too, was fate.
The earth would continue to circle the sun, just as it always had. The tides would rise with the moon, rain would fall and storms would rage; time would pass no slower or faster than since it dawned. Life would carry on. And so too, would Mac. But now with Harm beside her.
She finally realizes that love is an epiphany borne of paying attention.
It may the tragedies that stick out-the worst times are the most vividly remembered-but if you pay attention, if you shut up and just watch, you'll see things you never saw before. You'll see victory where you once saw defeat. Control where you once saw only chaos.
You'll see love where you once couldn't see anything at all.
All Harm needed was a push. All she needed was him.
THE END
Rating: PG-13
Other Yada: In the first couple of chapters.
Notes: This is the final chapter in my first JAGfic! I really do hope you enjoy and let me know that you did! Special thanks to usnavychic for the killer beta. I survived my first foray into JAG fandom. I have to thank everyone for all of their support and great reviews! I've been living on them!
PART FOUR
Some people were born to it. Things just happened to them. Whether it was an astrological assignment of being born under a certain sign, or a scientific law that hadn't yet been discovered, there were souls out there that happenstance followed around like a forlorn puppy. Harm was one of them.
In his case, it was usually danger or drama that found him, and he seemed to be forever tethered between the two, east of the Rock and west of the Hard Place.
Since being partnered with him, Mac had been sucked inexorably into his vortex of episodic phenomenon, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the unscrupulous nature of its assignment. She likely hadn't pictured herself in a future of such blatant unpredictability. He knew she wanted a normal life; a long and distinguished career in law, a husband, children, PTA meetings and anniversary diamonds, all safely enclosed in the proverbial white picket fence of American domesticity.
She had to know what she was getting into-choosing a future with him in it- she was a smart woman. The knowledge that she'd done so anyway both broke his heart and buoyed it at the same time.
As he watched her sleep next to him, he brought a hand unconsciously to his heart. He'd never before considered love a physical sensation. This woman, he thought to himself, he ached for her. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
They'd each fought against the singular attraction that they felt for each other. They'd tried ignoring it and masking it and burying it. They'd each tried replacing it. With every attempt at denial it seemed to manifest itself more aggressively until finally they gave in to it. After such a long fight, Harm was a bit thrown at how easy that had been.
This however, was the challenge; the living of it. Playing it any other way would have been safe. You couldn't get burned if you stood outside the fire.
He remembered cases they'd worked and endless hours they'd put in. Their lives together had held more than a fair amount of adventure and excitement, but the quiet times were the ones he truly coveted.
When they worked late and the office had emptied out, he'd sometimes put on some music. He kept several CDs in his desk drawer, but Mac had always been partial to Paul Simon's Graceland. One day he'd take her to Africa, to Memphis.
Two weeks ago, he thought, he was in the wrong lane, but going in the right direction. He'd been taking it slow with Mac for years, being ever so careful. He swallowed a breath and steeled himself. Overcorrection could make you lose control.
Angels in the architecture, they reached for lo mien.
He rolled out of bed and watched her sleep, standing guard over her dreams. He would hold on to this moment, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
She came awake slowly, stretching like a cat languorously in the warmth of the bed. She knew without looking that he was no longer laying next to her. She could hear him in the kitchen, trying to be quiet in that loud way of men.
It was odd, how many times she'd been in his apartment, and yet this vantage point was completely foreign to her. She debated as to whether or not she should get up, but decided against it. The view may be strange, but she liked it. Surrounded here by his things, she felt-somewhat abstractly- as if he'd finally let her in.
There was an especially loud crack from the kitchen and she heard his muffled curse. A moment later he approached and she pretended to be asleep. The mattress dipped near her hip as he sat down next to her.
"Faker," he said a moment later, and she smiled and opened her eyes.
He was smiling down at her himself, his eyes crinkled with affection. She returned his grin, feeling somewhat shy and took the steaming mug he held toward her, shifting up the bed to sit.
"Did I wake you?" He said, looking pained at the thought.
"Not at all," she replied, burying her nose in the aromatic steam of her mug.
He took a sip from his own, and they each sat somewhat sheepishly as a silence stretched on.
This was ridiculous, Mac thought to herself, considering some of the things they'd done the night before. Neither of them had been shy.
She set her mug down on the nightstand next to her and leaned forward, letting the sheet fall away from her chest. She pushed her lips against his and stole one quick kiss, lingering in front of him for a moment.
"Good morning," she said, and then leaned back, enjoying the startled, pleased look on his face.
"Good morning," he returned, setting down his own mug and looking at her. She felt as if he were drinking her in instead.
He rose and reached down, squeezing her knee through the sheets. He moved to the other side of the bed and flopped down next to her.
"How did you sleep?" He asked, propping himself up on his elbow.
"I didn't much," she said slyly, "but you already knew that. You were there."
He grinned at that, looking smug. He ran a hand over his chest contentedly.
"You look good when you wake up," he said without preamble.
"This isn't the first time you've seen me first thing in the morning," she said.
He reached out and took her hand in his. It was impossibly warm beneath her fingertips and soft as silk.
"Not like this," he said.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
Sometimes, in flashes, she'd wonder at the thought of him wanting her the way he did. Like all women, she was never quite convinced at her own attractiveness, no matter how much evidence to the contrary was presented her. That he-this man who was himself alluring beyond all fairness, who always seemed to be preoccupied with matters far more important than love- would want her with the passion he seemed to, stunned her.
It was also quite confidence-inspiring. She felt courageous and cavalier with the knowing of it.
She lured him into the rain. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
Mac was standing in front of his big plate-glass window wearing one of his button-down shirts that was three sizes too big. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"It stopped raining," she said, leaning back into him. He felt somewhat disappointed. The rain made his apartment feel more secluded and cozy.
He didn't say anything, but sighed.
"What was that for?" She asked him, catching his eyes in the reflection from the window.
"It was a sigh of contentment," he answered, burying his nose in her hair.
"Do you mind giving me a ride to my place this morning?" She asked him, "I want to pick up some things."
"What kinds of things?" He said, beginning to nibble at her neck.
"Clothes, mostly," she said, distracted.
"I don't know. I don't intend to let you keep them on for very long."
"Confident, aren't we?" She said, suddenly stepping away from him playfully. He leaned forward after her as if magnetized. "Come on, Rabb," she said, sauntering off to where her discarded uniform waited, "be a gentleman."
She purposefully walked with her hips swaying a little more than usual and his thoughts took a decidedly ungentlemanly turn.
An hour later he found himself standing in her living room while she shuffled about in her bedroom, taking more time to pack for a day and a half than any Marine should. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
How is it that he deserves this, he wonders later, dripping wet and sodden. He can feel bubbles squish their way up between his toes whenever he takes a step. How did he manage to find what others have searched their entire lives for? His clothes, soaking wet, stick to him like a second skin and he sends up a prayer of thanks. He's clearly one lucky son of a bitch.
"Ready," she said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom with a small backpack slung over one shoulder.
He turned to her from examining a framed picture of Chloe that he'd seen a million times. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the promise of more foul weather. Harm recollected vaguely that the sailors in Chicago had called it the Witch of November.
That flare of energy he got at seeing her out of uniform was back again and this time it passed between them. He opened the door for her and led her out without a word.
They paused in the entranceway of Mac's building. Somewhere in between her apartment and the front door, the rain had begun anew. Harm had parked just north of her building, not two blocks away. He turned to her.
"What do you think, Marine? Do we make a run for it?"
She smiled at him then.
"Haven't we already?" She said, taking a step backward, pushing the door open with her elbow.
He cocked his head at her, squinting in question. She flashed him one more smile and then stepped into the rain, turning south.
He'd taken risks in his life and she'd pulled his can out of the fire more than once. He knew he was a brave man, but admitted (if only to himself) that perhaps he could use a bit of work on his impulse control. He had no wish to lie in Flanders Field.
He stood a moment watching her from the relative safety of the building's entrance. He could work on impulse control tomorrow-he followed her into the downpour. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
She heard his splashy footfalls behind her and turned, waiting for him to catch up. The rain was pouring down, she could feel the water soaking her shoulders and dripping off her hair. He grabbed her arm as he reached her, but didn't try to lead her anywhere.
"What are we doing out here?" He asked, standing in front of her. Beside her.
She finally realized that that was the difference between him and everyone else she'd ever loved. He stood beside her. He always had.
"Well, I was going to ask you a question," she said, "but you already answered it."
His shoulders were hunched up against the cold and wet and he gave her a questioning look.
"You followed me," she said simply.
A gust of wind came in then, bringing still more rain with it, now coming in almost sideways.
"I'd follow you anywhere," he said.
She was soaking wet and giddy. She grinned like an idiot.
"You're crazy!" He shouted above the roar of the downpour around them. She knew he'd never seen her so madcap and juvenile. These were the things he invoked in her. Insane crashes of love, she couldn't help but act her shoe size.
"I know!" She yelled back, thunder punctuating her admission.
She felt crazy. Wild, happy. A laugh bubbled up from inside her.
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like a soaked cat; miserable and bewildered. But there was something else in his look, too. An air of intrigue and affection surrounded him and it made her knees a little bit weak.
Impossibly, the rain seemed to fall harder in a great whoosh around them.
"I love you!" She suddenly shouted, almost bending double in the effort to be heard above the din of rushing water.
"What?" He yelled above the roar.
"I said I love you!" She yelled again, laughing.
A smile bloomed across his face, even as rain poured down it in rivulets. He shook his head, laughing, and then took one great stride to her, catching her mouth with his.
They walked down the street, caught in the rain, caught up with each other. Too warmed by the look of the other to be cold. If anyone bothered to pay them any attention, they'd see nothing but two people smiled upon by Eros.
He took her home and wrapped her in a blanket and she decided that love was this, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
"You're like a clarinet sounds," he says to her in the night.
She looks skeptical in the glow of a single burning candle.
"Have you ever dropped acid, Harm?" She asks, but he refuses to let her break the trance she's charmed him into.
"That's what I think of when I think of you. You're like a clarinet sounds, like a Miles Davis song."
If his declaration is a little weird, it's unfailingly sweet. She feels tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she won't let them fall.
"You're quiet, and calming. A little bit sad," he says, running a fingertip down her temple, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "But beautiful. And different. I lose myself in you."
It was a midnight admission, pillow talk of the hopelessly fallen. There was a magic in candlelight as well-she knew she wasn't likely to get professions like this often-she looks into his eyes and holds it with her.
"Where?" She whispers, the question barely audible.
He touches a finger gently over her heart. "Here," he says, and moves it to her lips. "And here." She closes her eyes to that. "Everywhere."
Knowing him was like eating an orange, she thinks. You have to peel away a lot to get to the center of him, but what you find there is wholly worthwhile.
Tangy, sweet, and a little bit messy.
"I know," she says, "you're it for me, too." ____________________________________________________________________________ __________
In flight school he had a poem from Yeats taped to his bathroom mirror. He used to read it while brushing his teeth. "I know that I shall meet my fate, Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love." If he still had the sheet somewhere, he would throw it out. He stood watch now with his heart alone and he'd met his fate with two feet planted firmly on the ground. Yeats probably hadn't had Service A's and pumps in mind, but he could split the difference.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
What the Admiral said tomorrow didn't matter. What did matter was that they each had dreamed for themselves a future that was fulfilling and exciting and full of the things that make life worth living, and now their reality held the promise of even more. Few are blessed enough to live life knowing what they have, and fewer still are satisfied by it.
Whatever did happen was fated to be, she knew this intrinsically. But she also knew that her future had Harm in it, whether that be in a professional capacity or not. That too, was fate.
The earth would continue to circle the sun, just as it always had. The tides would rise with the moon, rain would fall and storms would rage; time would pass no slower or faster than since it dawned. Life would carry on. And so too, would Mac. But now with Harm beside her.
She finally realizes that love is an epiphany borne of paying attention.
It may the tragedies that stick out-the worst times are the most vividly remembered-but if you pay attention, if you shut up and just watch, you'll see things you never saw before. You'll see victory where you once saw defeat. Control where you once saw only chaos.
You'll see love where you once couldn't see anything at all.
All Harm needed was a push. All she needed was him.
THE END