**********
I make some notes on my outline as I listen absently to the bustle of the carrier, and the wardroom, go on around me. Harm disappeared about twenty minutes ago, leaving me, once again, to start typing our report to the admiral. He's probably on vulture's row, watching the planes land and launch. Oh well. After what happened there last night, I'm willing to cut my partner a little slack.
I take a sip of my coffee, staring at the WindowsNTÒ icon as I wait for my laptop to boot up. Thinking of Harm invariably causes a smile to form on my face.
Things are certainly progressing nicely between us emotionally, and physically. Would have even more so on the latter, had Sergei not been there. Then again, if he hadn't, Harm would have insisted, once again, on sleeping on the couch. Sometimes, I wish he wasn't quite so chivalrous. My little suggestion, combined with Sergei's presence, gave him a good reason not to be.
Maybe when we get back from this assignment, Harm and I can spend a few uninterrupted hours together. Maybe see a movie. Or rent one, have a night in. Get the fire going, and enjoy a snowy evening together. Maybe spend a whole weekend together, just the two of us.
A pair of khakis catches my eye, and I look up from my coffee to see Harm steaming his was towards my table. He looks quite pleased about something. In fact, the only time I ever see that look on his face is when…
My stomach tightens instinctively.
"Mac! Guess what!"
I already know.
**********
Well, I have to admit that, like everything else he wears, Harm looks damn handsome in his flightsuit and gear. The self-assured smile, the height, his build—hell, his skin, hair, and eye coloring—all contribute to the very picture of a dashing naval aviator.
I'm a little ambiguous about Harm's whole part in this. This is more than just some exercise; this is an actual mission into actual enemy territory, with the very possibility—the very likelihood--that Harm could experience some serious action. Not that Harm has never seen it, as his two DFCs and other ribbons can attest to. He flew in Desert Storm, and of course during the Bosnian war. But, still, I love him, and I think I'm entitled to worry a little, though I'm not about to show it around him. However, we still have a duty here, and this is a perfect opportunity to put into action what we put into words at the JAG forum.
I'm doing fine, maintaining my composure, until Harm's RIO, Lt. Jorgenson, introduces herself. Her presence isn't what cracks my rigid resolve; it's her topic of conversation. I don't mind talking about Skates, or even the light flirting the lieutenant is engaging in, but when Harm recaps the events of that stormy May night, I feel my anxiety increase tenfold. Being reminded, from Harm's own lips, of how he almost died, that, if it wasn't for maybe Skates, the medics, and certainly divine intervention, Harm would have succumbed to hypothermia, puts a strain on my already tenuous bravado.
"Commander, do a lot of things happen to you?" Jorgenson asks.
"Well, certainly that week."
Harm flashes a wry smile following this declaration his eyes flickering to me, but his expression is mostly guarded, and the best I can make out is, perhaps, an apology of sorts to me, for the hell that was that night. But I can't be sure. I do my best to return his smile, but the result reflects the strain of the effort. Harm's in nearly full pilot-mode, the control of which he so cherishes—and is so skilled at—shields most of his emotions. Still, I think there's something there behind those hooded eyes—perhaps it's the realization of how much could have been lost on that one night—but he turns back to his RIO.
"This ought to be interesting."
Harm seems glad to end the conversation, and put to rest all topics regarding his most recent crash. In truth, he needs to. His head should be clear for the mission and not with the lingering doubts and fears and whatever other emotional responses still resonate from that ordeal.
I find copying that clear-headedness harder to do.
This is just a test, MacKenzie. You said you were…okay…with certain aspects. Now it's time to put up or shut up. I'm not going to let the demons that once haunted our relationship surface again. This is the chance to finally get things right, and I'm not about to waste it.
And I'm determined to get one thing right, in particular. Just before he steps into the corridor, I tug on his sleeve. He stops, half out the doorway and looks back at me.
"Good luck, flyboy," I manage to say with an even voice, though it's not as strong as I would like it to be.
He flashes a brief smile, lacking its usual brilliance, but his eyes sparkle with recognition and gratitude.
"See you after the mission, Mac."
*********
As soon as his lumbering form disappears down an adjoining corridor, I haul ass to the bridge. My participation (thankfully) is required for the demonstration the CAG wants to perform, and I am grateful for the front row view and insider information the position affords me. I need that connection to Harm. I want to know and hear what's going on, for better or for worse. Any piece of information, no matter how disheartening would be better than the few hours I spent not knowing, not hearing anything after he went down at sea.
Like Harm, I value control.
I only wish, at times, I could hang onto it as well as he does.
I almost smile, thinking most days I condemn that tightly held control he wields like a saber and shield.
I hear the CAG give the signal to launch and I shake myself out of my thoughts and step closer to the windows, registering distantly the inquisitive look the XO gives me, but most of my brain is intent on maintaining visual contact with Harm.
I watch his plane line up and launch, and I continue to watch until even the last tiny speck of his sleek F-14 disappears into the clouds, my heart heavy with conflict and ache.
I remind myself of my parable that earlier gave me so much peace.
Please, bring him back to me once more.
*********
The tailhook slams me hard against the seat, the echoes of "Eject! Eject! Eject!" still bouncing off the inner walls of my skull. I have never felt such a welcome jolt as that particular tailhook grabbing the number two wire.
Christ Almighty that was close. I'm starting to feel maybe I'm getting a little too old for this.
I hear a heavy sigh of relief from Lt. Jorgenson and I glance in the rearview mirror and catch her eye as I echo it. She gives me a thumbs-up and a weak smile.
We're both a little rattled yet.
I pop the canopy release and we clamber out, my eyes sweeping the deck instinctively for Mac, before remembering she's probably still on the bridge.
Shit. I hope she's okay. If she's on the bridge then she surely heard every radio transmission I gave about my status and position. From what bits and pieces I've collected about the night of her rehearsal, she was pretty shaken up by the news I had gone down. I'm sure my latest adventure did nothing to quell her anxiety. I know how much my flying used to bother her; this little episode probably opened old wounds.
I've managed to gain my equilibrium once again and, apparently, so has Lt. Jorgenson. As we make our way to the debriefing, she comments,
"I was right about you. Things happen when you're around." I smile slightly, thinking that's certainly one way of looking at it.
"Ma'am," she acknowledges, and I turn to find my marine in her greens (and khakis) waiting patiently outside the Ready room. She looks her usual, composed, tough-as-nails self, complete with an amused smile in place.
"Mac," I greet, glad to see her, wondering if that unworried façade is just that. She gives me brief smile and nod, as she returns the lieutenant's greeting.
"I'll, uh, I'll catch up with you in the Ready room, Lieutenant."
"And I'll buy. If they ever finish debriefing you." She flashes a smile at me, a look at Mac, and thankfully proceeds before I get in any deeper with Mac. I know it's coming…
Sure enough.
"How nice. You've made a friend," she remarks pleasantly.
"Maaac," I drawl warningly, as I make my way to the Ready room. She just smirks.
"Oh, she's right. Things happen when you're around," she continues, following.
"Were you worried?" I ask, wondering if everything really is as okay as it seems.
"Not for a moment," she replies with a breezy smile as she moves past me.
Hmmm.
I think I don't give my marine enough credit.
**********
"Enter!" a voice beckons. I open the hatch and step into Mac's stateroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Mac's already hard at work on her laptop, and on our report to the admiral. I feel a little guilty, as she's been doing all the paperwork so far, while I've been off living the high life on a carrier.
"Hey, Mac."
"Oh, good. You're just in time to read it over," she remarks, giving me a pointed look.
"You're all done?"
"Almost. Typing my conclusions now."
"Don't you mean 'our'?" I tease, knowing she probably wants to hit me. I receive another look. There's a quick tap-tap-tappity-tap of the keys and suddenly she stands and gestures to the seat she just vacated. I take her spot and begin reading her—er, our—report.
About two paragraphs in I add a couple comments, eliciting a laser stare from Mac.
"What are you doing?" she asks, standing up from her seat on the bunk and moving to hover over my shoulder.
"Adding a few remarks."
"What remarks?" she demands.
"There's a few things you forgot to mention in your report. I just added them in."
"What things?" She reaches over me and tries to move the pointer back up to my additions. She smells absolutely incredible.
It's not like she's dwarfed in Chanel, or Beautiful, but she smells so heavenly that I release my hold on the 'down' arrow key and breathe in the sweet scent. Her presence reminds me we're almost done here with our objective; in fact, we'll be returning on the morning cod.
Not a moment too soon, as far as I'm concerned. The lax decorum around JAG of late is one thing, but I'm not about to risk the same kind of behavior out here. After spending several tours on carriers, I know there's no privacy and I know how fast scuttlebutt moves. Mac and I don't need to embarrass ourselves, or our uniforms, trying to temper our passion. Not to mention I served on the Seahawk and that's really not the legacy I want to leave.
"Harm!" she cries, jerking me out of my thoughts.
"What?"
"I mention this further down. If you would just read the report first—the entire report—then maybe you wouldn't have to add comments."
"Well, to be honest, Mac, it would fit better right here."
"You--" she starts, her dark eyes flashing, "have some nerve."
I must, because she's yelling at me and all I can think about is how good she looks doing it, and that she'd look even better without that uniform on. Thank my lucky stripes she can't read my mind. She tends to get even pricklier when she feels she's not being taken seriously.
"While you've been off being Harmon Rabb, I've been quietly doing all the paperwork—without, might I mention, receiving so much as a 'thank you'—and then you just show up and start rearranging things and adding your two cents as though I can't compose a competent memo to the admiral."
"Mac…"
"You're really irritating you know? Most days I want to strangle you and kiss you at the same time," she adds, almost to herself.
"Well…" I say, seeing an opportunity.
"Although right now, I just want to strangle you."
Damn.
"Look, Mac. The report looks great. Thank you for handling all of it."
"Hmph." She quickly taps the cursor to the beginning of my comments and holds down the delete key. About halfway through the second comment she stops. "Hmm…actually we could probably keep that one."
"Thanks," I mutter sarcastically. "Glad to be of help." She gives me a Look, and I retype what she erased, snapping my fingers against the keys. We stare each other down for a few seconds before she returns to her bunk and I return to reading her—our—report.
"So, Mac," I say, seeing another place where I can 'add my two cents,' as she put it, and hoping my talking will drown out the sound of my fingers on the keyboard. "You doing anything this weekend?"
"Are you adding more comments?" she demands.
"I was thinking we could do something this weekend. Maybe see a movie, if you want. You got any ideas?"
"Well, I could probably tend to your hands. By Saturday I'll probably feel guilty enough for breaking them."
"Vicious, Marine. Seriously, though. What do you think?"
"I was being serious, Harm. If you don't get your fingers off those keys—"
"You know what might be nice? Going away for the weekend." There it's out. I said it. It's on the table.
A long silence follows this statement. I'm starting to wish I held my tongue.
"Wow."
I turn my head towards her in surprise.
"That sounds like a great idea, Harm. I was kind of thinking the same thing," she smiles shyly.
"Really?" I ask pleased we finally seem to be on the same wavelength and that I haven't been reading her signals wrong. For once. "So whatcha wanna do, Mac?"
"Have Harmon Rabb, Jr. all to myself," she answers, and I swear the door must have closed more than I thought because it's rather hot in here.
"Well, that is the idea, Marine," I manage to reply with some pretense of control.
"Hmm. Now where do I want to have Harmon Rabb, Jr. all to myself?" she muses. Great, now I'm starting to sweat. This laptop sure generates a lot of heat.
"That's what we're trying to figure out," I remind her. I try to focus on the words she has written, but it might as well be Greek. All I can think about is her in the sexy white nightgown she wore in Russia. The feel of those curves I became somewhat acquainted with the night we hotbunked in my bed.
"Hmm." The way she utters the sound causes the blood to beat loudly in my ears.
"Think of anything?"
"Maybe," she smiles devilishly. "Be sure to pack light."
**********