Completely, Utterly, Totally Busted
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A/N: YAY!!! Total fluff fic… I just read something far too serious and sad for my liking. I felt like crying and throwing up the whole way through. (JAGfreak, I know I am being a hypocrite, cuz I kill 'em all the time, but why'd "The Things I Couldn't Say" have to be so sad? They're meant to die knowing the other loves them… that way it's not so, so depressing. *tear escapes eye* *wipes it away* Marines don't cry… I ain't a Marine (yet) but Semper Fi ya all!!)
Anyhow, this fic revolves around Mac being TAD on the Seahawk before All Ye Faithful in Season 8. *grins* Harm's snooping in her office and finds something he was never meant to find…. (he he he) and as the title would suggest, is completely, utterly, totally busted.
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I stormed into her empty office and slammed the door behind me. The room was quieter than usual, it was missing her vivacity, semi-dead in her absence.
"You miss her Rabb, damn you miss her," I muttered to myself, remembering the reason I'd come, to locate that annoyingly elusive file on an Article 134 I'd been assigned when Chegwidden had divided her work among her colleagues.
I looked on her desk, which was covered in white sheets of paper and manila folders that all looked incredibly similar.
I looked under desk, on her filing cabinets, under the mess on her desk, in her waste bin (which is where I would've put it, given half a chance) and once again under the mess on her desk.
No file.
Trying to be disappointed, and quashing all thoughts of giving up on the file and conveniently forgetting I had work to do, I roamed the small space thinking of where else a folder with 25 pages of information max would be hidden.
I noticed her desk drawers.
Ordinarily, I would never have thought of it, but today I needed that file. I opened the top drawer. The top drawer was Ok, top drawers are never personal. It was filled with more assorted Mackenzie-usque junk.
No file.
I tried the second drawer. Stationary, a few cases I'm sure she'd shoved in
there in hope of the drawer consuming its contents while she was on lunch, but
no file.
I tried the third drawer with similar results.
Finally, I reached the bottom drawer. If top drawers are never personal, then bottom drawers most certainly always are. The bottom drawer is where you hide the stuff you don't want anyone to see, its at the bottom, it's the last place they'll look.
I opened the drawer hesitantly.
A near-empty space greeted me. There were two or three clean sheets of white paper, a few photographs, two of her and I, and one small, innocent looking notebook. I flicked through the contents of the drawer, making an instant inventory. Nothing that appeared to be covering for a rogue file.
I closed the bottom drawer and sat at her desk. That notebook had been the most interesting thing in that drawer. I thought about the cover of the exercise book curiously. It had been covering with sketches and scribbles. Obviously something she felt was important enough to keep safe and secret in her bottom drawer. There was a certain psychology to the bottom drawer of ones desk, and when small, innocent looking notebooks appear in bottom drawers, they are more than likely not innocent at all.
I opened the drawer again.
The book gazed at me eagerly.
I looked away, but didn't close the door.
I turned back.
The book's eyes never left me.
I turned to face the window.
I could feel it's stare boring holes into my back.
I turned around, picked it up and flipped to the first page.
Mmhmm baby, well it's been a long, long time since you were close to me, and I've been thinking maybe… maybe, maybe, maybe we could be. Maybe we got something oh… and I've been wanting you such a long, long time. I've been missing, missing, missing you when you're gone… oh yeah, and I've been thinking maybe, maybe, maybe, just maybe, we got something to build a dream on. Hold on, hold on to me, hold on, something to build a dream on.
*hums*
Well I've never tried this before, writing in a diary I mean. Sure I had a few
journals when I was growing up, and even when I've been older, but a journal is
different to a diary. A journal is where you have a practical conversation with
yourself about the comings and goings of your life, your relationships, your
job, and your feelings. A diary on the other hand is where you ramble about the
assorted mush inside your head making you feel weak at the knees. (Although if
the man making me weak in the knees was in my head, I'd be convinced I was
crazy by now.)
I confess, my sole purpose here was to gush about him. (And yes, my
non-committal ways and severe paranoia have ensured that I refuse to write his
name in here. Someone might read it. *blushes* I think I'd die in embarrassment
if he ever read this.)
I stopped reading, realising that this was a classified document not cleared for my eyes. But I wanted to know who she was talking about, who that lyrical verse at the beginning was for. I had a fair idea who I wanted her to be talking about… I re-read the last few lines and felt guiltier than ever, but read on anyway
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