Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money off of them, so please don't sue me, DPB.

Category: Angst/Romance with a smidgeon of Drama/Adventure here and there.

Pairings: Webb/Mac, (a small nod to Harm/Mac), AJ/Meredith, Sturgis/Bobbie, Gunny/Other

Spoilers: Everything before "A Merry Little Christmas"

Warning! Character Deaths (though they meet a heroic ending, if that helps any).

Summary: Webb and Mac prepare to enjoy a holiday weekend with their friends and family, but secrets of the past may threaten their marriage and their future. (Set 18 years in the future).

Author's Note: If you can't stand the idea of Webb and Mac together, don't waste your time or mine. Just go hit the "back" button on your browser and enjoy the hundreds of other fantastic Harm/Mac pieces out there. That being said, if you're looking for a Harm-bashing fic, this isn't it, either. I actually like Harm, and I have tried to paint him as he's depicted in the show, good points, bad points, honor, heart and all. Finally, I warn everyone that this is not a "happily ever after" piece. Lot's of angst, lots of tragedy, and potentially lots of hankies required.

Memorial Day

By Lady Chal

Chapter One

28 MAY, 2021

16:50 ZULU

WASHINGTON ATHLETIC CLUB

WASHINGTON, D.C.

            "En Garde!"

            The clash of metal against metal echoed off the high ceilings and rang loudly throughout the large gymnasium as the two swordsmen squared off. A crowd of spectators slowly gathered to watch the combatants as they viciously attacked each other with the flashing foils. They appeared to be almost evenly matched as they pushed each other up and down the narrow white mat that was their dueling ground. So fast and furious were their movements that almost no one saw the lightning thrust made by the taller of the two combatants. Nevertheless, it scored a direct hit on the opponent's breast, triggering the small electronic sensors woven into the fabric of the tunic and registering the contact on the computerized scoreboard. A buzzer sounded and a green light flashed in the winner's field as another point was scored.

            "Touché," the man gasped, folding his foil under his arm and removing his helmet. "That's two for you. The student has bested the master. –Well done, Grasshopper."

            Rachel Turner removed her own helmet and shook her head, loosing a shining mane of tight black braids. "The student got lucky," she said, sucking in a breath. "You were off your game today, Uncle Clay." A small frown creased her warm brown features as she took in his unusually pallid complexion. "Are you feeling ok?"

            Clayton Webb accepted the towel an attendant offered him and mopped the sweat from his face. Frankly, he wasn't, but he didn't like admitting it. At 58, the gray that liberally streaked his brown hair, the lines that had deepened around his eyes and mouth, and the persistent aching of his joints all attested to the fact that he was no longer the man he used to be. However, he liked to think that his regular regimen of riding, swimming and fencing had helped to maintain at least a little of his endurance and athletic physique. Unfortunately, Rachel was right. He was definitely not up to par. Likely it was just the fact that Father Time –and maybe that Polish Dog with the extra kraut that he'd had for lunch—was finally catching up with him.

            He shook his head, still breathing hard. "No, kiddo, you won that one fair and square." He used the towel to wipe at the back of his neck. "I pronounce you ready for the trials next week."

            Her face brightened. "Really?"

            "Really," he assured her. Walking over to a nearby bench, he stowed his gear into a black athletic bag. "Between running and swimming with your father, riding and fencing with me and putting in time at the shooting range with Mac and Galindez, how can you not be?"

            Rachel tucked her foil into her own bag and looked thoughtfully at her helmet. "Tell me straight," she said levelly. "Do you really think I've got a shot at making the team?"

            He raked a hand through his hair and sat down upon the bench to rest a moment before he answered her. "I think you do," he said at last, his voice serious and his eyes sincere. "You're already better than I was when I qualified. You've had a hard time beating me, but you've got to remember that I've never really given it up. I've got a few more decades of experience behind me now." He smiled, "Heck, I'm better now than I was then, --except for being a little long in the tooth."

            Rachel smiled back. It was a remarkable combination of her father's pleasant demeanor and her mother's polished beauty. "Thanks, Uncle Clay."

            He shook his head. "Don't thank me," he said. "If you get this, it will be because you've earned it. –And even if you don't get it, we'll all still be proud of you. Your father already is proud of you. Last time I saw him up at the Pentagon, he was telling everyone about how his little girl was trying out for the Olympics."

            Rachel made a face. "The way Dad goes on about it, you'd think that I'd already won or something."

            Clay smiled.  "As far as he's concerned, you're gold medal material."

            "Oh," Rachel said, "I just remembered. Mom wanted me to ask you what time we were supposed to be at your house for the cook out. She's been out of the office all week with a cold and she hasn't seen Mac to ask her."

            Clay frowned. "Darned if I know. That's Mac's department. I'm just in charge of making sure the beer's cold and the steaks don't burn. I'll tell her to call Bobbie when I get home."

            A soft electronic chirp came from somewhere inside his bag. Reaching into it, he dug out his cell phone and flipped it open.

            "Webb," he said brusquely, staring down into the phone. There was a moment's hesitation as the video link connected and his daughter's face appeared in the tiny screen.

            At fourteen, Penelope Webb was just starting to show the promise of her mother's exotic beauty and her father's sharp good looks. Her hair was the same silky dark brown as her parents, and she had inherited her mother's delicate cheekbones and deep set eyes if not her complexion. That, she had received from her father, along with his nose and what he suspected to be his mother's chin. From time to time, she was also starting to exhibit a disturbing tendency towards his own wicked brand of sarcasm. As to her streak of bull headedness, he refused to claim it. –And God knew that sixteen years of marriage had taught him better than to point that particular finger of blame towards his wife –even if he thought it was justified.

            "Hey Daddy, I'm done with orchestra practice. Can you come and get me?"

            Webb frowned. "I thought it was your mother's turn to pick you up."

            His daughter made a face, wrinkling her delicate nose. "She called to tell me she can't. She said her car was acting funny this afternoon, so she took it in to the shop. It's still not ready."

            "I told her not to buy American," Clay grumbled. "Do we need to stop and get her, too?"

            Penny shook her head. "No, she said she was going to stay late and finish going over some depositions. Uncle Bud will bring her home."

            "All right," he sighed. "How about we grab dinner on the way? What do you want to eat? –Seafood?" He asked, hopefully. Maybe some good bread and a nice steamed soft shell crab would counteract the effects of the hot dog.

            "Beltway Burgers," his daughter replied automatically.

            Clay groaned as his stomach roiled. "How about we meet in the middle and go for Chinese?"

            Penny distributed both her displeasure and her acceptance with a long suffering sigh. "Oh, all right. When will you be here?"

            "I'm leaving now," he assured her and was about to end the call when Penny cut in.

            "Oh, I almost forgot! The phone rang as I was leaving for school this morning and there was a call for you. If I don't tell you now, I'll probably forget!"

            Lord, Clay rolled his eyes. Isn't that the truth! He still hadn't quite forgiven her for the time she'd taken the call from the Swedish Ambassador and forgotten to tell him about it. Then, when she had remembered, she couldn't recall who she'd talked to. Being a diplomatic number, the caller ID had been blocked, and he'd ended up phoning twenty two embassies before he'd finally gotten the right one.

            "Who was it?" he asked, trying –and failing—to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

            "It was the flower shop," Penny said, "They said your order will be ready tomorrow afternoon and that you can stop and pick it up any time after two o'clock."

            "Ok, sweetheart," he said, punching at the key pad of the cell phone. Her image momentarily disappeared to be replaced by his calendar as he entered the notation into his appointment book. "I'll see you soon."

            Disconnecting the call, he shouldered the bag and turned to Rachel. "You need a ride home?"

            Rachel shrugged. "No, that's all right. I can take the Metro."

            Clay scowled. Between being raised in the midst of Navy and Marine Corps officers and training with sword and pistol in her hopes of qualifying for the Olympic Pentathlon, he didn't doubt that she could take care of herself. Still, he didn't like the thought of her riding the train through D.C. alone.

            "Come on," he said, "It's practically on my way, and besides, it looks like Penny and I are at loose ends for dinner. Come eat some Chinese with us. It'll be my treat."

            Frankly, he hoped she would take him up on the offer. His stomach was starting to churn so badly that he wasn't sure how much he was going to be able to eat anyhow. When he thought about it, he really didn't feel all that well. His hands felt cold and clammy, and he was starting to regret the fact that he'd dismissed his Government Issue driver early today and opted to drive himself to the club. Hell, he was starting to feel badly enough that he was starting to consider taking his chances and let Rachel drive.

            "Ok," she said slowly, "If you're sure it's not any trouble." She hesitated and shot him a worried look. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? You really don't look very good."

            He offered her a tight smile as he attempted to cover the stab of indigestion. "Probably just a bad hot dog," he said, picking up his bag and heading towards the door. "Don't tell Mac, ok? She'll have a fit."

            He was halfway across the room when the first stab of pain hit him like a hot dagger between the ribs. The second jolt shot up and down his arm and he dimly realized that his fingers didn't seem to be working as the athletic bag slipped from his grasp. He struggled for breath, but he couldn't seem to draw any air into his lungs. A dim gray cloud was creeping in around the edges of his vision as his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to his knees on the polished maple floor. From somewhere far away, he was vaguely aware of Rachel calling his name. She sounded panicked, he thought. –And then the gray fog enveloped him completely.

19:55 ZULU

CARDIAC CARE UNIT

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER
PIMMIT HILLS, VA

            "Mrs. Webb? The Doctor will see you now."

            Sarah Mackenzie Webb gave her daughter's hand a reassuring squeeze and then followed the nurse out of the waiting room and to the tiny conference room that stood a short distance down the main hallway. She sighed as she heard the soft pad of footsteps behind her and realized that Penny had followed her, rather than remaining behind with Sturgis and Bobbie and Rachel as she had hoped she would do. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she heard the gentle shifting of a chair and then the heavier tread of a man's footstep fall in with them as well. That would be Kennedy, she thought grimly. She had learned long ago that when it came to the CIA, nothing was sacred. –Least of all your privacy. She found it to be one of the true ironies that she and Clay had had even less of it since his appointment as DCI four years ago. Now their life seemed to be a whirl of personal drivers and body guards and security people. There were times she even suspected that the receptionist at the firm and the freckle faced courier who brought her lunch and delivered paperwork might be CIA plants.

            The nurse opened the door and ushered them into the room, indicating that they should take a seat in the two not quite comfortable overstuffed chairs. Kennedy, to his credit, took up a silent position against the wall. Grudgingly, Sarah supposed she shouldn't be too bitter with him. He was her husband's personal aide and she knew that Clay considered him a friend. –And she knew she had George to thank for the fact that there were only the three of them here, and the entire waiting room hadn't been jammed with suits. Two guards were discretely posted at Clay's room –one inside and one outside–two more at the elevators and there was probably at least one agent on every floor and more outside the hospital, but under the circumstances, Kennedy had managed to keep the CIA's presence to the bare minimum. Added to that was the fact that she knew Clay would not have it any other way. He was a man of many secrets –not all of them his own—and he would never risk national security for such a small thing as his own personal convenience.

            With a familiar sense of resignation, she pushed all thoughts of the Agency from her mind and focused her mental energies upon her daughter instead. She wasn't entirely certain that she wanted her daughter present for this conversation, especially if the news was bad, but Penny was tenacious to the point of being stubborn. She'd have liked to have blamed Clay for this irritating tendency as she did all the others, but she was entirely too aware of this particular flaw in her own personality and she could not, in good conscience, lay the fault for it entirely at her husband's feet.  Besides, she thought, it was useless to shelter Penny from this. In the end, Sarah knew, she would only be peppered by a million questions that she did not have the answer to because she was quite frankly too dazed and worried to think to ask them herself. Best just to let Penny in on it from the start and take her best shot while the Doctor was here to answer.

            The nurse appeared again, rolling in a small wheeled cart with a computer and monitor balanced atop it. A moment later the doctor followed, still garbed in his surgical scrubs. A stethoscope was draped around his neck and a surgical mask dangled beneath it.

            "Mrs. Webb? I'm Dr. Markham."

He extended his hand and she accepted it, absently noting the smooth softness of his palm and the firm grasp of his fingers. She nodded towards Penny, who stood just at her shoulder.

"Doctor, this is our daughter, Penny." She didn't bother to introduce Kennedy. Likely the hospital staff was well acquainted with him already, since he'd been revising their security measures for most of the afternoon.

Markham offered Penny another handshake and a pleasant smile then turned to face the nurse.

"Jane, could you bring up Mr. Webb's files for me?"

The nurse nodded and began tapping away at the computer as Markham turned back to Mac.

"How is he, Doctor?" she asked, and heard the unsteadiness in her voice.

"He's stable for now," Markham said, "but I'm afraid he's in for a bit of a rough road back to recovery."

Sitting himself in a chair opposite Sarah and Penny, he met their worried expressions with a demeanor of infinite calm.

"Your husband has suffered a massive heart attack, Mrs. Webb. It was fortunate he was not alone when it happened. The young lady who performed CPR on him undoubtedly saved his life."

Sarah nodded, blinking back tears. Rachel had been a sobbing wreck when she and Penny had found her in the emergency room upon their arrival. She had wasted no time in sending Bud to call for Sturgis and Bobbie, and it had taken several minutes for her to calm the girl sufficiently enough to get the full story out of her. She had been somewhat calmer by the time her parents had arrived. Still, it had required a good deal of convincing upon everyone's part to reassure the teenager that what had happened was not her fault. In spite of her concern, Sarah could not help but feel a small twinge of irritation with her husband. –Foolish man! Polish hot dogs indeed! From Rachel's description, he'd been exhibiting all of the classic warning signs for most of the afternoon. God Bless that girl, she thought, she has no idea what we owe her.

The computer hard drive whirred loudly for a moment as the files loaded and the nurse turned the monitor for all of them to see. Reaching over to the cart, the Doctor took a wireless touch pad and rolled his finger across it, selecting the image the image he wanted. The screen was suddenly filled with a slightly grainy black and white image that she realized must be Clay's heart.

Circling his finger over the pad, the doctor highlighted several areas of the picture.

"Once we got him stabilized we ran several angiograms and an MRI. There are several blockages in the major arteries around the heart. If it weren't for the fact that he's strong and in good physical condition, it's doubtful that he would have survived."

She felt Penny's fingers close tightly around her own and squeezed them back, finding her own small measure of comfort in the gesture.

"He works out regularly," Sarah mumbled, almost to herself.

Doctor Markham nodded. "It's a good thing he did. It certainly helped him to keep fighting."

She bit her lip and silently ordered herself not lose control. The doctor in the ER had told her they'd almost lost him twice. –Once in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and again in the ER.

Markham selected another view and indicated a small, grayish white area in the middle of the picture. "I'm also somewhat concerned about this valve leading into the left ventricle," he said. "It's not working properly and it appears to have suffered some type of physical trauma in the past."

Sarah nodded quickly, thinking back to that wretched time in Syria, not long after they were first married. "He was shot," she said quietly, hating the brittle quality of her tone.

The doctor nodded briskly. "Well, combined with some of the neurological damage your husband has suffered as a result of the heart attack, it appears that the valve is not working properly. It may be necessary to schedule a valve replacement once the problem of the arterial blockage is resolved."

"What are you going to do?" Penny demanded.

"It's a simple procedure," Markham assured them. He made a few more selections with the wireless pad and brought up a computerized model of the human heart. Briefly and efficiently, he explained the processes of both operations to them.

"When do you want to do it?" Sarah asked.

"As soon as possible," Markham replied. "The valve replacement can wait a while, but the arterial blockage should be dealt with now. We have the time and the people and I see no reason to wait. I'd like to do it tonight."

Sarah took a deep breath and nodded. "All right," she said at last.

Markham smiled gently. "Jane will have some papers for you to sign. It will be a while before we get him prepped and ready."

"Can we see him?" Penny asked.

"For a few minutes," the doctor replied. "He's still a little groggy from the medication. –Not too long, though. He's very tired."

"Thank you, doctor," Sarah said quietly as Markham rose to leave.

He paused and flashed another smile. "I wouldn't worry too much," he said reassuringly. "I got look at that cheering section out there in the waiting room. –With that many people pulling for him, I'm sure he'll do just fine."

The cheering section was still waiting for them when they returned to the waiting room. Rachel was practically on pins and needles as she sat between Sturgis and Bobbie, anxiously glancing from Sarah to Penny for an indication of the news the doctor had delivered. Sarah also saw that Harriet had arrived and was sitting next to Bud with worry written in every line of her sweet face. She privately suspected that it was young A.J. fresh home from college, who had drawn the short straw in keeping an eye on his two younger siblings.

"How is he, Mac?" Sturgis asked. His voice, as always was measured and calm, but his eyes betrayed his concern.

Mac smiled weakly. "He's ok, for now, but he's not out of the woods. There are some arterial blockages. They want to take care of them right away. They're going to do the procedure yet tonight."

Reaching out, Bobbie Latham Turner took Mac's hand and grasped it firmly. "What can we do?"

Mac looked at the woman who somehow over the years had managed to become not only her friend, but her business associate and gave the question careful consideration.

"Could Penny stay with you tonight?"

"Of course," Bobbie replied.

"No!" Penny protested, almost simultaneously. "I want to stay here."

Mac shot her daughter a stern look. This was a matter upon which she would brook no argument. "They won't let both of us stay, Penny. You heard what the doctor said. Your father is very weak and tired and they don't want him to have too many visitors right now."

"I'll stay in the waiting room!" Penny pleaded.

"No," Mac said firmly. "I need to be here for your father, and I'm going to have to count on you to see that things are taken care of at home. Jack needs to be walked and both he and Tigger need to be fed and someone needs to call your Aunt Caroline in California and tell her what's happened. I'm sure Sturgis and Bobby or…" she shot a glance towards the agent who had returned to his seat in the far corner of the waiting room "…perhaps even Mr. Kennedy would be willing to bring you back here in the morning."

"I'd be glad to do it, ma'am," Kennedy put in quietly.

Mac nodded her gratitude and then looked back down to her daughter's rebellious gaze. "Can I count on you to do that for me?"

The staring contest lasted for perhaps five seconds. Fortunately, Mac had far more experience when it came to shooting murderous glares, and Penny eventually acquiesced.

"I'm not going until I see him."

Mac ruffled her hair with a gentle hand. "Of course you're not," she said.

They were all the way to the door of the glass walled chamber that was Clay's room before Penny's resolve finally faltered. She hesitated just outside the threshold and anxiously studied the motionless figure in the bed surrounded by tubes, tanks, monitors and other assorted medical equipment.

"He looks so sick, Mom," Penny whispered. She sounded unsure of herself. "Is he really going to be all right?"

Sarah wrapped an arm around her daughter's thin shoulders. She understood her reticence. She too was having a hard time reconciling her vigorous powerhouse of a husband with the fragile man in the hospital bed.

"Of course he'll be all right," Sarah said firmly. For Clay's sake she had to rally both herself and Penny. "Your father has survived car bombs, kidnappings, gunshot wounds and terrorists. If he lets himself die of something as simple as a heart attack, I'll kill him."
            "I heard that," a thin voice muttered weakly from the bed.

"Daddy!" Penny sobbed and rushed towards him as all of her inhibitions vanished at the sound of his voice.

For a moment, Sarah feared she would try to fling herself into his arms, but the tangle of tubes and wires brought her up short at the foot of his bed. Cautiously, Penny edged her way along the bed and finally settled for dropping her head to the pillow beside him and burying her face in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. Clay closed his eyes and smiled faintly and Sarah felt the muscles in her throat constrict as one well shaped hand, swathed with tape and bearing an intravenous tube, slowly came up to stroke Penny's hair.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," Clay murmured. "Your old man's not licked yet."

Penny drew in a long shuddery breath and pressed her head tightly to her father's cheek.

"I was so scared," she said in a small, muffled voice.

"I know," Clay said, and angled his head enough to drop a clumsy kiss upon her temple. With great effort, he managed to open his eyes again and his gaze sought Sarah's over the dark head of tangled curls. "But it's over now. Don't worry. The doctors will have me fixed up and back on my feet in no time, you'll see."

Taking note of the evil eye the charge nurse was shooting through the glass in Penny's direction, Sarah decided that she'd better step in before their visit was cut even shorter.

"Penny's going to stay with Sturgis and Bobbie tonight, so she'll have to be going soon. Rachel's still pretty shaken up about everything."

"Rachel," Clay muttered, a troubled look crossing his face. "She was with me when it happened. –Christ, it must have scared the hell out of her."

"That would be putting it mildly," Sarah said, stepping up behind Penny and running a soothing hand down her back. "But she managed to keep her head. –You owe that girl your life, Clay. She was the one who started the CPR on you and she was still working on you when the paramedics got there."

Penny did not seem at all inclined to leave, and Sarah raised an eyebrow to her husband. Clay nodded almost imperceptibly and turned his head back to Penny's face again, whispering softly into her ear.

"I'll be all right, Sweet Pea," he said softly, calling her by her old child hood nickname, "but I need you to do something for me. Will you do it?"

"What?" Penny's voice, still muffled in his shoulder sounded suspiciously thick with tears.

"I need you to go out there and talk to Rachel for me. I don't think they'll let her in here and she's probably starting to worry that she did me in with all our fencing practice this afternoon."

 Sarah shook her head in amazement, wondering why after all this time she should still be surprised at his perceptiveness. This was a man who could read the minds of diplomats and politicians and some of the most powerful men in the world. Why shouldn't he be able to read the mind of a seventeen year old girl as well?

Clay drew a slow breath and Sarah could see that he was tiring, but he pushed on. "I want you to tell Rachel that I said it's not her fault. I was an idiot and I pushed myself too hard."

Sarah smiled faintly. She would certainly agree with him on that one.

"I want you to tell her that I said Thank You. –Can you do that?"

Penny nodded and sniffled loudly. Clay dropped another soft kiss into her hair. "Go on then, Sweet Pea. –And listen to your mother."

Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Penny pulled herself away from her father and turned to go, blinking furiously with red-rimmed eyes. Sarah laid an encouraging hand upon her daughter's shoulder and paused only long enough to drop a brief kiss upon her husband's forehead before ushering Penny out of the room and down the hallway to the waiting area. There, she turned Penny over to Sturgis and Bobbie, along with her extra house key and a list of brief instructions for the alarm system and the animals and where to find Clayton's sister's telephone number. She walked with them down to the elevators, along with Bud and Harriet, and saw them off.

The Roberts stayed a moment longer, and Harriet laid her hand upon Mac's arm, her blue eyes narrowed with concern. "Are you sure you don't want us to stay with you? –At least until the procedure is over?"

Mac shook her head. "No, it's all right. It will be late and you've got the kids to worry about and Bud is going to have an early day in court tomorrow."
            Bud nodded. "Don't worry about any thing. I'll speak to the Judge and get a continuance on your cases until next week."

"Are you sure?" Harriet asked again.

Mac nodded firmly. "I'll be fine," she assured them. All she could think about was getting back to Clay.

"Call if you need anything," Bud ordered, and escorted his wife on to the elevator. The polished steel doors closed behind them, and she was alone. –Except, of course, for the two agents posted on either side of the hallway.

As she passed the waiting room on her way back to Clay's room, she caught a glimpse of Kennedy, standing in front of the large bank of windows. His image was revealed in the lamp-lit reflection of the darkened glass and she could see by the way he was looking down into his palm that he was talking on his vid-cell. No doubt giving the latest report back to the Company, she thought, not a little unkindly and pushed on down the hallway.

At the door of Clay's room, she spared a brief nod of acknowledgement to the guard posted outside the door and stepped inside. As she entered, the second guard, who was seated inside the door, rose silently and made his exit, just as he had done a few minutes before when she and Penny had arrived. In spite of her resentment at their intrusion, she felt a small measure of grudging gratitude towards Kennedy. He hadn't had to do that. Agency protocol demanded that guards be posted and present at all times when the DCI or another such high-ranking intelligence officer was incapacitated. Still, even though it flew in the face of CIA directives, he had spoken to the guards, instructing them that Director Webb's wife and daughter were to be allowed this time alone with him. She supposed that might be part of the reason Clay had made Kennedy his aide in the first place. The man was arrogant, stuffy, and coldly professional, but like her husband, he did have a heart buried somewhere beneath those suits and ties.

She saw that he was sleeping as she crossed the room and threaded her way through the medical equipment to his bedside. His complexion was an unhealthy shade of gray, and there were faint smudges of shadows in the hollows of his eyes. She felt the worry begin to curl about her heart as she stood there, taking in the sight of him. She had always known that she might lose him, but somehow, she had never prepared herself for this.

 Every time he had set out the door with his suitcase packed and passport in hand, she had braced herself, knowing that this might be the time he didn't come back. She had prepared herself for all the usual possibilities: kidnapping, assassination, capture and execution. She had even thought of all the ways it might be done: knives, guns, garrotes, and bombs. A plane might crash, a boat might sink, or a truck might accidentally roll over a land mine, and suddenly she would receive a phone call in the middle of the night and two more men in suits and ties would come knocking on her front door.  She had spent the last fifteen years preparing herself for such wild possibilities that it had never occurred to her he could die right here, in the middle of a goddamned athletic club, of something as simple as a heart attack. It was just so …so ordinary. It was absurd.

There was a large leather arm chair beside the window. Like the furniture in the waiting room, it was not quite comfortable; still it made a vague effort in that direction. She lifted it up and placed it quietly next to the bed at his left side, taking care to mind the snare of tubes and wires. Easing herself into it, she traced her fingers down his forearm until her palm closed gently over the bones of his wrist. The tips of her fingers curled slightly, seeking and finding the pulse point. She searched until she could feel the faint, rhythm jumping beneath his skin as it kept time with the beeping of the heart monitors. The contact reassured her somewhat, and she lowered her head to the mattress, turning her cheek into it so that she could study their joined hands.

He had nice hands.

It was one of the first things she had noticed about him, all those years ago when she finally had seen past her own delusions enough to notice anyone other than Harmon Rabb. She recalled that day with crystal clarity. She could still see him there, standing at the window of Chegwidden's office, all buttoned up tight in his dark suit and projecting his polished aura of arrogance and authority. She could still remember his voice, his calm, measured words as he'd patiently explained why he needed her for his mission, rather than any of the numerous, qualified and perfectly adequate female operatives he could have chosen from the CIA stable. He had gestured as he spoke, and the sunlight streaming through the Admiral's window had caught on the Harvard ring he often wore, sparking a flash of gold across her line of vision. She had found herself idly studying those hands as he had presented her with his argument for why she should go with him to Paraguay, and realized that she had never really noticed them before. They were strong hands, competent and agile, with slim, tapered fingers that were still masculine without being large or blunt. However, she'd still retained enough of her critical thinking skills to remind him that she lacked one critical qualification in the role as his pregnant wife: she wasn't pregnant. His face had displayed no expression, but she'd felt pinned by his speculative gaze as those murky green eyes had swept over her, and all of her errant thoughts had flown out the window as he had tossed off that smart-assed reply.

But those hands had intrigued her. She could still remember them, fine and well shaped as they had passed that sparkling rope of platinum and diamonds across her throat, and she remembered marveling at their smooth dexterity as he had fastened the tiny catch and straightened the glittering strand to its best advantage against her skin. She could still feel the warm brush of his fingers upon her shoulder as he had turned her to survey his handiwork. The touch had left a warm tingle upon her skin, and she had looked into his downcast eyes with a surprising twinge of pique when she noticed the direction his gaze was taking. Lesser men would not have passed up the opportunity to sneak a glimpse at her chest, but his eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the diamonds at her throat. He had asked for her hand then, and slid that brilliant, sparkling, ridiculously large diamond upon her finger with strong, sure fingers. And when he raised his eyes to look squarely into hers, she had known she would never be able to look at Clayton Webb in quite the same way again.

Sliding her hand down, she curled her fingers over his palm and brushed her thumb over the bones of his wrist. His fingers flexed slightly beneath hers and she lifted her head to find herself staring into his unfocused gaze.

"Hey," she said softly, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand again.

"Hey," he whispered back, his voice still a bit groggy. Freeing his hand from hers, he reached up and touched her cheek. His thumb swept along the side of her nose to touch the dampness at the hollow of her eye. "You're crying," he murmured, but there was no hint of reproof in his voice.

Taking his hand, she pressed it more tightly to her cheek, and then quickly turned to drop a kiss against his palm. "You scared the hell out of me, Clayton Webb," she said fiercely.

"I know." He managed a wry smile. "I scared myself, too. All I could think of when it happened was that it wasn't how I planned to go."

She caught the faint teasing hint in his voice and fixed him with a sharp look. "Oh? And just how do you plan to go?"

"In bed. --With you."

She made an odd noise, half laugh, half sob, and dropped another kiss upon the inside of his wrist. "I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Webb," she said, and arched one delicate brow. "Maybe if we do it right, we can go together."

This time, it was his turn to chuckle, though he couldn't put much energy into it. "God," he said, "wouldn't that be a shock for the housekeeper."

Reaching out, she stroked that errant lock of hair, now streaked with gray, that she adored. His smile faded, and his eyes searched hers, their murky green color darkening a bit as he studied her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured at last.

"For what?" she asked.

"For screwing up your plans. I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your Memorial Day weekend."

She snorted. "Well, it has put a bit of a damper on things, but I wouldn't say that you've blown things completely out of the water. It's only Friday night. The picnic is still three days away."

He brushed a thumb across her cheek. "There goes my cockeyed optimist," he muttered. "You really think they're going to cut me loose that soon?"

She arched one delicate brow. "Have you read your health plan lately?"

He smirked. "Point taken."

There was a soft muffled sound from the doorway, and she looked up to see a nurse standing there, the CIA security man right on her heels. "We need to prep Mr. Webb for surgery now," the nurse informed them.

Sarah nodded and rose from the chair. Bending over him, she dropped a kiss upon his brow and then paused to nuzzle the hollow of his eye, placing another kiss along the side of the slightly crooked, blade thin nose she loved so well. She inhaled deeply, absorbing his scent.

 "I'll be right outside," she promised.

He didn't answer, but squeezed her hand in reply. His fingers released hers reluctantly, and she knew he wasn't quite as confident as he was trying to appear.

She waited in the hallway as the nurse and orderlies bustled about, adjusting tubes and wires as they transferred him to the wheeled gurney that would carry him down to the operating room, two floors below. A few minutes later, they exited the room in a well-orchestrated parade, with an orderly pushing the gurney and two nurses hanging onto the confusing array of IV's and monitors. She managed to push herself into the crowd, and take hold of the hand that stretched out towards her as they pushed past. The two guards fell into step as well, one in front and one bringing up the rear. It was a tight squeeze into the elevator, and one of the guards had to step out and ride down with Kennedy, but the two men and another team were awaiting them when they got off downstairs.

They came to a stop at a junction in the hallway, where a corridor to the waiting room intersected with a large pair of swinging double doors. Dr. Markham was waiting for them donned from head to toe in fresh surgical scrubs, a pair of soft paper slippers covering his white sneakers.

"I see we're all ready," he said, and flicked his gaze from Kennedy and the security men to Clay. "I understand you like having your entourage about you, Mr. Webb, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to draw the line at the operating room door."

Kennedy nodded, and then tilted his head at the surrounding security team, his eyes signaling the two men who would remain outside the door. The rest dispersed and moved efficiently to new positions down the various hallways and into the waiting room. The doctor smiled good-naturedly, and nodded to Sarah. "Kiss her goodbye, then."

Clay shot him a suspicious look. "That's some way to instill confidence in your patients."

Markham grinned at Sarah. "I'll have him back out to you in no time, good as new."

She fixed her husband with a bemused glance. "That's what I'm afraid of," she muttered, and then bent to kiss him.

She meant it to be a simple, chaste kiss, like the ones she'd given him earlier, but she was caught off guard by the hand that tangled suddenly in her hair and cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer with surprising strength. His mouth opened under hers and she responded instinctively, only to feel the long, sweet glide of his tongue as it swept along hers and caressed the inside of her mouth. When they parted, she was acutely aware of the blush that had suffused her cheeks, not to mention the crowd of people standing about who were trying –and failing—not to stare at them.

She glared at her husband in exasperation. "I can't believe you just did that!" she hissed. Her face was only inches from his, but she could see the amusement –and desire—burning brightly in his green eyes.

He shot her his best cocky smile. "Just thought the old ticker might need an extra jolt," he said as his fingers slid back from her hair to caress her cheek. His expression sobered. "I love you."

She felt her throat convulse and swallowed hard, forcing back the misty tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes. She would not cry, damn it. Not in front of all these people.

"I love you too," she said, and then turned and walked away. The tears were already starting down her cheeks, and she refused to let him see.