Title: Just to talk Part IX
Author: Nan
Rating: PG-13
Classification: Mac/Harm
Spoilers: Take It Like a Man
Authors Notes -******************************************************************
1145 Zulu
Georgetown
Colonel Mackenzie's Apartment
Mac laid the morning paper carefully on the table. She sat down with the intention to read, coffee in hand. It was what she always did. Her morning routine. Get up at five. A morning run. Shower, blow dry, makeup. Coffee and the Washington Post.
She sat there staring at the headlines. Nothing sank in, words on paper. Stories about the Democratic Primaries. Did she care? Usually. Not today. Today her traitorous mind refused to concentrate. Today, all she thought about were the events of the night before. Like a needle stuck on a record. The endlessly cycling of a few images. Mattie, Sadik, Persian music, a gun, Harm. This was not healthy.
Mac put her mug down. She stood up from her table and walked over to the full-length mirror near the apartment door. She stopped to look at her reflection. Her uniform was flawless. Hair and makeup looked good. She maintained her sobriety despite the pressures. All assignments and paperwork was current. Systematically, she forced herself to find something positive about her life. Small things yes, but she wanted to prevent the slow slide into the destructive. A place she knew too well.
Maybe she should make an appointment with Commander McCool at Bethesda. She toyed with the idea. But Mac knew from past experience introspective sessions were unsettling. She always did better with self-help groups. She tried to think what that might be. Washed-up Women Warriors Anonymous? Loser Lady Lawyers Support Group?
Mac pulled her thoughts away. Distance. She needed to put distance between her and her whole episode with the CIA.
Work would be a welcome distraction. Taking a coat from the closet, she went to the hall table to retrieve her car keys. On the table, the mail from yesterday was piled. A tattered envelope was on top. It was from Lylyana, from Aceh, Indonesia. Mac had kept a pen pal relationship with the young girl who had saved the American Embassy personnel from an angry mob. Mac ran her thumb slowly across the handwritten letters as if to feel her cheerful presence. Separating it from the rest of the correspondence, she stuffed it into her bag. Maybe if she had a spare moment today, she would treat herself to Lylyana.
********
Mac surveyed her meager lunch. A bottle of Deer Springs and two Snickers bars, compliments of the vending machine in the coffee room. Pathetic, but it was this or the JAG cafeteria. And she didn't want the banality of small talk today. With her door closed, staff would assume she was busy working. And so she would be, after she spent some time replying to Lylyana's letter.
Lylyana's exuberance despite her poor circumstances always managed to lift Mac's mood. She tried to imagine the girl today, three years older than when she last saw her. She was a teenager now and her mother was working again for the re-opened American Embassy. Her letter was filled minutiae of embassy life.
That frenzied evacuation of the US Embassy in Aceh had left Mac with two things. A Meritorious Service Medal and an overwhelming sense of guilt that the little girl who had revealed the secret escape route had been injured or killed in the cross fire. Mac took no pleasure in her high award until she found Lylyana in a local hospital, recovering from her wounds.
There was no such neat closure in the case of Sadik. No little girl to exchange her medal award for a hand drawn picture of a female marine. No sense that underneath all of the ugliness, something good happened.
She thought about the betrayal of the British missionary, Carla Robinson, at Sadik's compound in Paraguay. In an alternate universe, Carla might have been her friend. Both had a common interest in fighting poverty and ignorance. But Sadik had made them animals, fighting each other just to survive. Except with Carla, there was no survival.
There was a knock at Mac's door. Harm stuck his head in.
"Preliminary draft of changes to ROE's in Haiti - I'm told they are in here?" he said. His attitude was formal and polite.
She reached for a file on the corner of her desk. "All yours," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Lunch?" he said, nodding toward her meager fare.
She nodded. "It's a necessary food group. Chocolate."
He relaxed slightly. "Ah, I see," he smiled. "Therapeutic?"
"Very," she smiled back.
"Everything okay?" He risked engaging her.
"Of course," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "Is there a reason why everything shouldn't be?" There was a hint of defiance despite her effort at keeping her voice even.
"No," he said. He tried to catch her brown eyes with his blue ones. She quickly looked down at the files on her desk. She picked up her pen, indicating her desire to work.
She heard the door latch click as he exited.
**********
"You're what?" The disbelief in Webb's voice came clearly across the line.
"I'm flying to England," she said. She was sitting at her table, the clutter of her dismantle bedroom everywhere. It was late evening. She knew she was lucky to be speaking to Clay. He was on assignment.
"To visit a Baptist Church," he said incredulously.
"In Croydon," she said. "It's the church where the Robinson's came from."
There was a pause. "Look Sarah, don't do this."
"Do what, Clay?"
"Assuage your conscience on some misguided quest," he said too quickly.
"Is that the way you see it?" The argument came quickly, like before. He didn't want to see her side.
"Take a vacation. Mother has a nice place in Provence. Relaxing."
"I'm going to Croydon." She was firm.
"Carla Robinson blamed the US for everything. She nearly got you killed."
"Yes."
"If you can't sleep, go to Bethesda. They have people who can help," said Clay.
"Is that what you do, Clay? A little therapy, a little Canya, a different girl and a new mission. And everything that happened fades into the background?"
"Maybe. At least I don't fall apart when I hear a tune from the Iranian hit parade."
Her eyes wandered slowly around her apartment. She narrowed them as she studied the motion detectors mounted high in the corner of each room. How did he know about the other night? Not from not from any shared confidence with Harm. The relationship between the two men was currently glacial. It was the new security system.
All of sudden she felt dirty again. "You're watching me?" she asked incredulous.
"Not me personally. But the Company is. For protection. Your protection, Sarah."
"You didn't think to tell me this?"
She heard a sigh. "Look it's nothing. A few listening devices, that's all."
She didn't say anything. Finally, she heard Clay say, "Sarah?"
"I'll talk to Kershaw in the morning. I want everything out of here," she said.
"Okay," he said. "Sarah, I'm..."
She cut in. "Clay. This is a mistake. Do you agree?"
"No! Listen, Sarah..."
"Well, I do. Don't call Clay," she said. She took the phone away from her ear and pushed the button to disconnect.
Author: Nan
Rating: PG-13
Classification: Mac/Harm
Spoilers: Take It Like a Man
Authors Notes -******************************************************************
1145 Zulu
Georgetown
Colonel Mackenzie's Apartment
Mac laid the morning paper carefully on the table. She sat down with the intention to read, coffee in hand. It was what she always did. Her morning routine. Get up at five. A morning run. Shower, blow dry, makeup. Coffee and the Washington Post.
She sat there staring at the headlines. Nothing sank in, words on paper. Stories about the Democratic Primaries. Did she care? Usually. Not today. Today her traitorous mind refused to concentrate. Today, all she thought about were the events of the night before. Like a needle stuck on a record. The endlessly cycling of a few images. Mattie, Sadik, Persian music, a gun, Harm. This was not healthy.
Mac put her mug down. She stood up from her table and walked over to the full-length mirror near the apartment door. She stopped to look at her reflection. Her uniform was flawless. Hair and makeup looked good. She maintained her sobriety despite the pressures. All assignments and paperwork was current. Systematically, she forced herself to find something positive about her life. Small things yes, but she wanted to prevent the slow slide into the destructive. A place she knew too well.
Maybe she should make an appointment with Commander McCool at Bethesda. She toyed with the idea. But Mac knew from past experience introspective sessions were unsettling. She always did better with self-help groups. She tried to think what that might be. Washed-up Women Warriors Anonymous? Loser Lady Lawyers Support Group?
Mac pulled her thoughts away. Distance. She needed to put distance between her and her whole episode with the CIA.
Work would be a welcome distraction. Taking a coat from the closet, she went to the hall table to retrieve her car keys. On the table, the mail from yesterday was piled. A tattered envelope was on top. It was from Lylyana, from Aceh, Indonesia. Mac had kept a pen pal relationship with the young girl who had saved the American Embassy personnel from an angry mob. Mac ran her thumb slowly across the handwritten letters as if to feel her cheerful presence. Separating it from the rest of the correspondence, she stuffed it into her bag. Maybe if she had a spare moment today, she would treat herself to Lylyana.
********
Mac surveyed her meager lunch. A bottle of Deer Springs and two Snickers bars, compliments of the vending machine in the coffee room. Pathetic, but it was this or the JAG cafeteria. And she didn't want the banality of small talk today. With her door closed, staff would assume she was busy working. And so she would be, after she spent some time replying to Lylyana's letter.
Lylyana's exuberance despite her poor circumstances always managed to lift Mac's mood. She tried to imagine the girl today, three years older than when she last saw her. She was a teenager now and her mother was working again for the re-opened American Embassy. Her letter was filled minutiae of embassy life.
That frenzied evacuation of the US Embassy in Aceh had left Mac with two things. A Meritorious Service Medal and an overwhelming sense of guilt that the little girl who had revealed the secret escape route had been injured or killed in the cross fire. Mac took no pleasure in her high award until she found Lylyana in a local hospital, recovering from her wounds.
There was no such neat closure in the case of Sadik. No little girl to exchange her medal award for a hand drawn picture of a female marine. No sense that underneath all of the ugliness, something good happened.
She thought about the betrayal of the British missionary, Carla Robinson, at Sadik's compound in Paraguay. In an alternate universe, Carla might have been her friend. Both had a common interest in fighting poverty and ignorance. But Sadik had made them animals, fighting each other just to survive. Except with Carla, there was no survival.
There was a knock at Mac's door. Harm stuck his head in.
"Preliminary draft of changes to ROE's in Haiti - I'm told they are in here?" he said. His attitude was formal and polite.
She reached for a file on the corner of her desk. "All yours," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Lunch?" he said, nodding toward her meager fare.
She nodded. "It's a necessary food group. Chocolate."
He relaxed slightly. "Ah, I see," he smiled. "Therapeutic?"
"Very," she smiled back.
"Everything okay?" He risked engaging her.
"Of course," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "Is there a reason why everything shouldn't be?" There was a hint of defiance despite her effort at keeping her voice even.
"No," he said. He tried to catch her brown eyes with his blue ones. She quickly looked down at the files on her desk. She picked up her pen, indicating her desire to work.
She heard the door latch click as he exited.
**********
"You're what?" The disbelief in Webb's voice came clearly across the line.
"I'm flying to England," she said. She was sitting at her table, the clutter of her dismantle bedroom everywhere. It was late evening. She knew she was lucky to be speaking to Clay. He was on assignment.
"To visit a Baptist Church," he said incredulously.
"In Croydon," she said. "It's the church where the Robinson's came from."
There was a pause. "Look Sarah, don't do this."
"Do what, Clay?"
"Assuage your conscience on some misguided quest," he said too quickly.
"Is that the way you see it?" The argument came quickly, like before. He didn't want to see her side.
"Take a vacation. Mother has a nice place in Provence. Relaxing."
"I'm going to Croydon." She was firm.
"Carla Robinson blamed the US for everything. She nearly got you killed."
"Yes."
"If you can't sleep, go to Bethesda. They have people who can help," said Clay.
"Is that what you do, Clay? A little therapy, a little Canya, a different girl and a new mission. And everything that happened fades into the background?"
"Maybe. At least I don't fall apart when I hear a tune from the Iranian hit parade."
Her eyes wandered slowly around her apartment. She narrowed them as she studied the motion detectors mounted high in the corner of each room. How did he know about the other night? Not from not from any shared confidence with Harm. The relationship between the two men was currently glacial. It was the new security system.
All of sudden she felt dirty again. "You're watching me?" she asked incredulous.
"Not me personally. But the Company is. For protection. Your protection, Sarah."
"You didn't think to tell me this?"
She heard a sigh. "Look it's nothing. A few listening devices, that's all."
She didn't say anything. Finally, she heard Clay say, "Sarah?"
"I'll talk to Kershaw in the morning. I want everything out of here," she said.
"Okay," he said. "Sarah, I'm..."
She cut in. "Clay. This is a mistake. Do you agree?"
"No! Listen, Sarah..."
"Well, I do. Don't call Clay," she said. She took the phone away from her ear and pushed the button to disconnect.