Title: Declaration

Chapter 7

*****

I should call Sarah.  I really should.  She has to know I'm home by now, so if I don't call, she's going to wonder why.

My plane from Albuquerque landed two hours ago.  Instead of calling anyone to pick me up, I grabbed a cab and headed straight home.  Part of me wants the comfort and assurance of having Sarah here with me tonight.  God knows I don't want to be alone with my dark thoughts.

But at the same time, I want do to be alone, because then at least I don't have to emote about my feelings.

Rubbing my eyes, I pour another drink.

About then, I hear a knock at my door. It can't be Gunny, since he's still in New Mexico, and Mother usually calls first.  So I'm guessing it's either Sarah or Tim.  Reluctantly, I pull myself out of the chair and trudge, drink in hand, toward the source of the noise.

When I swing open the door, I'm surprised to find Harm standing there.  I haven't seen Harm since I was in the hospital after Paraguay.  "Rabb," I say.

"Webb.  Can I come in?"

I motion him inside, and then take a swallow of my drink.  "What can I do for you, Rabb?"

Harm ambles through the door and starts wandering around the room.  "It's different," he says.  "You used to have a bust of Beethoven or somebody."

"Well, a lot of my things are still packed away at Mother's house," I say.  "You tend to downsize when you've been banished to South America."

He frowns at me.  "Do you still blame me for that?"

I sigh wearily.  "I never blamed you for that Rabb.  Bringing you the tape was my decision."  I take a drink, and then add as an afterthought, "The tin man does have a heart."

Harm shakes his head, and half-smiling, plunks himself down on the couch.  "Am I interrupting anything?"

I think about saying something sarcastic, but decide against it.  "I just got home, actually.  What do need?"

He shrugs.  "Nothing.  I just came by to talk."

Raising my eyebrows, I drop myself into my chair.  "What do you want to talk about?"

He picks at the seam of his jeans.  "How are you doing?"

"What?"

"How are you doing, Webb?  You okay?"

Letting out a long-suffering breath, I say, "Rabb, are you trying to bond with me?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  "I'm trying to visit a friend."

I laugh out loud.  "Since when do you drop by to visit me?"

He stands up. "You know what?  I don't know why I bothered."

"Oh, sit down, Rabb."  I lean forward. "You usually only come by when you want something."

His jaw tightens slightly.  "You're the second person to tell me that today."

"Who was the first?"  I ask with interest.

"Remember Teresa Coulter?  You met her in Afghanistan."

I nod.

"Well," he continues.  "She's been home for a while, and she wanted me to go visit her.  Stay for a few days.  She's been wanting me to go see her for years, but I haven't gotten around to it. She called me this morning and told me I'm a lukewarm friend." 

I nearly choke on my drink.  "Lukewarm friend?  That's good.  I knew I liked her."

"Yeah," he flashes a brief, self-deprecating smile.  "What did you do to your hand?"

I glance at my still-bandaged wrist.  "It's a flesh wound."

"A flesh wound," he says suspiciously.

"That's right, Rabb."

 "So, do you love her?" Harm says suddenly. 

"Yeah," I say.  "I do."

"Okay."

I expect more—maybe a sardonic comment or an irate threat.  But instead, Harm just bites his bottom lip and nods.

"So," he says.  "I want to ask you something."  Leaning forward to rifle through the book of impressionist art I have on my coffee table, he asks, "Why didn't you ask me to go to Paraguay with you?"

Paraguay.  Number one on my list of least favorite things to talk about.

I take a long sip of wine.  "Courtroom theatrics aside, Rabb, I didn't think you could play a pregnant woman."

He glares.  "Why didn't you ask me to go to Paraguay in addition to Mac?"

"What would the good people of DC done without their resident superhero?"

I've entered smart-ass territory, and I know it.  Mother says I tend to rely on sarcasm to shield me from unpleasant emotions.  She says I get that particular trait from her.

"Webb . . ."

Letting out a breath, I say, "The Agency has been coming down pretty hard on me about you.  They say I'm too . . . close to you."

He narrows his eyes at me.  "So, you were trying to put some distance between us."

I nod. 

"Rabb, you know, if I had taken you with me, you wouldn't have been able to come in and save our lives.  I owe you."

"Nah," he says, waving his hand.  "I still owe you into the next millennium and then some for Jason Magida."

I smile.  "I haven't heard that name in a long time.  Those were good times."

"Yeah," he laughs softly.

I run my index finger along the rim of my glass.  Those were some of the best days of my life.  I was young, relatively innocent, and Harm and Sarah had just become integral parts of my life.  For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone.

"Clay," Harm says.  "You know, you're really guzzling that stuff."  He motions at my wine bottle.

I pick up the bottle and frown.  It's half-empty.  I can't imagine when I had time to drink so much.

I set the container down on the table and lick my lips.  "I'm going to die in the line of duty, you know."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

"Dammit, Clay," he says impatiently. "You could take a desk job."   

"I can't just let sit by while guys like Sadik Fahd destroy people's lives."

He stares at me, a look of sympathy washing across his face.  "There are other people to do the job.  You've earned a break, Clay."

I get up out of my chair and plunk myself down on the couch beside Harm.  Shaking my head, I say, "I'm dead inside anyway."

Harm turns to face me.  "What do you mean?"

I think about how to answer him for a long time, but I just can't.  I've locked everything so deep inside that I can't seem to get to it now.  Finally, I say, "I don't know."