Disclaimer: I don't own JAG. I also don't own the MCATs. If you could get me the rights to either of these, I would be extremely grateful.
A/N: If you've made it this far, I now owe you an apology. I write stories in bits and pieces, then tack them together at the end. This story is missing six months in the middle, and I can't for the life of me decide what to do with them. Here's what I know: Harm and Mac stay in the military and keep the money. That's it. If you have some idea how they might have passed those six months, let me know and I'll stick another chapter in the middle. Until then, consider this to be six months later…
Six months later…
"Come on, Harm. Lunch time."
I look up from my case file, pretending to be preoccupied. I'm not, actually; I'm not paying any attention to the papers in my hand. I'm still mad that she's forgotten what today is, and although I know it's juvenile and she has other things on her mind right now, I feel a little betrayed. I remembered her birthday this year, and her memory is supposed to be better than mine.
"I'm busy, Mac."
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The barely-contained hurt in his voice nearly makes me relent and tell him what's going on, but everyone's worked so hard to keep it a surprise that I can't ruin it.
"Oh, stop pouting, Navy." He gives me a funny look and I elaborate. "Just because Mattoni got the defense for that Allenger case...not every interesting case that comes through this office is going to be assigned to you, you know."
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I wasn't pouting before, but I am now. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Pouting?"
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Oh boy, I made it worse. Time to get this show on the road. The rest of the office staff is already gone, presumably on their way to the restaurant.
"Look, Harm, can't we just drop it and have a nice lunch?"
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She gives me that puppy-dog look she knows I can't resist, and I give in. I'm still mad, though, and I know this lunch is going to be torture.
"Fine. Let's go."
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I'm getting antsy. Mac has passed at least a dozen restaurants and our lunch hour is half up. I've got a deposition to take at 1300, courtesy of Bud's overzealous scheduling, and I don't want to be late. I'm also crabby because we've been in the car for twenty minutes and Mac isn't talking. About anything. I've tried to start a few conversations, and she just nods noncommittally and returns her attention to the road.
"Mac, will you pick someplace already?"
"Chill out, Harm," she replies, reaching over to rest a hand on my knee and squeezing it lightly. All right, I won't mind spending the rest of my lunch hour driving around DC if she's going to do that. To my everlasting delight, she appears to forget her hand is there, and we spend the next five minutes in an infinitely more companionable silence than we managed for the first part of the trip.
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It's amazing how fast he mellows when I give him a little physical contact. He's like a cat, I swear. Pet him and he purrs. I watch the road carefully, afraid I'll miss the turnoff for Limon's. It's set back from the street, but I spot it and turn. Harm doesn't appear to recognize the area until the restaurant pops up on our right.
"Mac, are you kidding?" he asks, and I detect a hint of excitement in his voice. We've both heard about this place, but it's impossible to get reservations unless you call at least three months ahead. Or, as it turns out, unless you're willing to drop some serious money on getting the reservations last-minute. I did the latter; now that I have serious money and no real idea what to do with it, it seems worth it just for the shock value. I pull up to the front and hand the valet who opens my door the keys to my 'vette. Harm waits for me at the curb, an unreadable expression on his face. He offers me his arm and I take it, and then he ducks his head down to kiss my cheek.
"You're amazing, did you know that?"
I smile up at him. "Happy birthday, Harm."
Now he's beaming. His arm snakes out of my grasp and around my waist, his hand coming to rest on my hip. We step inside and up to the hostess.
"Reservations for Mackenzie," I tell her, and she gives me a very unsubtle wink that Harm catches.
"Right this way," she replies, and we head toward the back room.
"Mac," Harm murmurs in my ear, arm still firmly around me. "What was that about?"
I shrug, deliberately not looking at him. "Gee, Harm, I have no idea." I smile up at him. "Maybe she thinks you're cute."
He snickers; the hostess can't be a day over twenty. She gestures in front of her to the private dining area.
"Enjoy your meal," she says, and I indicate that Harm should precede me inside. He makes it three steps in and comes to a screeching halt. I follow, grinning.
"You are so dead," he whispers to me around a smile, which is doubtlessly for the benefit of the entire JAG Ops staff plus other assorted visitors in the dining room. They all rise when he comes in, and I can tell he's trying not to blush.
"Surprise!" twenty voices chorus, and he shakes his head as he smiles.
"You got me," he admits to them, turning to poke my shoulder. "Tell me this was your idea."
"Completely," the admiral tells him, stepping up to shake his hand. "The major certainly knows how to organize a surprise party. She had all the details locked down tighter than Fort Knox. We didn't even know where it was until today."
"Most of us didn't, anyway," another voice says, and Clayton Webb steps up to shake Harm's hand as well. "Some of us have our sources."
"And the rest of us were just as surprised as you were," a third person puts in, and Harm gives her a dazzling smile.
"Harriet! I'm so glad you came."
She gives him a big hug, ignoring protocol. "How could the two of us miss your birthday?" she demands playfully, holding up little AJ. The baby reaches for Harm and Harriet hands him over cheerfully, and the look on Harm's face makes me hope and pray that the next five years pass at light speed. I can't wait until he looks at our children like that.
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I've finished opening almost all of the presents. Among them are a high-tech radar detection set that I think Webb swiped from a classified lab somewhere, tickets to the Washington Philharmonic from Bobbie, an antique sextant from the admiral, and a gorgeous new chess set from Bud and Harriet. Most everyone is up and moving, either dancing on the small wooden dance floor or chatting amongst themselves. Mac slides into the chair next to me, and I smile over at her.
"This is amazing, Sarah. Thank you."
She flushes and hands me a small box with a card attached. "I got this in Norfolk six months ago. I was going to wait for Christmas, but I'm awful about keeping surprises."
"You did a pretty good job today," I reply, removing the wrapping paper carefully. It's a leftover habit from my childhood, when my mother would reuse wrapping paper from year to year. I open the box and gasp, reaching in to pull out a blown glass model of a Stearman. Not just any Stearman, but Sarah, right down to the markings and ID number.
"Did I get it right?"
I give her an awed look. "It's perfect." She smiles, obviously relieved it went over well, and I set the model down carefully before grabbing her in an impromptu hug. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
A song I recognize comes on, and I see my opportunity.
"Care to dance?"
"It is your birthday," she acquiesces, eyes twinkling as we step onto the dance floor. I'm trying to decide if I should stand a respectable distance away or indulge myself and hold her close when she decides for me, curling her arms around the back of my neck and setting her cheek against my chest. I rest both hands lightly on the small of her back, acutely aware that we're still in uniform and the admiral's less than forty feet away. I'm also very aware of how good she smells and how close we are. It's a desperate battle to keep myself from doing something irresponsible and getting myself slapped, disbarred and court-martialed in that order. We haven't been dancing more than two minutes when a tap on my shoulder distracts me.
"Can I cut in?"
I resist the urge to scowl at Sydney, but Mac shrugs gamely, stepping back and letting the admiral's girlfriend step into her place. The admiral takes Mac's hand, and I'm quick to note that they maintain the respectful distance I couldn't. I don't have any problem keeping that distance with Sydney, though, and we chat about my birthday plans for the weekend while I watch my partner out of the corner of my eye.
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"This was a nice idea, Mac," the admiral tells me, and I smile.
"It was nice of you to extend our break, sir. I never could have fit all of this into an hour."
"Lieutenant Roberts is to thank for that, Major. He scheduled fake appointments for everyone until 1500."
I chuckle. "I wondered about that. Harm was getting angry with me; he thought he'd be late getting back."
Chegwidden gives me an unreadable look. "The two of you are getting along well recently."
I know what he means, but I'm intentionally going to play dumb. Harm and I are still dancing around this thing between us, and until we figure it out I don't want to discuss it with anyone else.
"Yes, sir. We were overdue for some peace and quiet."
He sighs. "As you will, Major. Just remember I'm rooting for you."
"I've never doubted it, sir."