**********
Perfect. Just perfect. If it hailed gargoyles and snowed lemmings it couldn't possibly make my day any worse than it is already at 0715 in the morning. It's a friggin' Monday, too, which only marginally tempers my contempt for the today. The fact that it is Monday means there is the hope, after all, that come Tuesday, my life will no longer suck.
Today is just fitting, however, after my weekend.
I haven't seen Mac since Saturday, when I stopped by to see how Jingo was doing and to drop off the items she requested: my USNA sweatshirt (She claimed she was cold and that sweatshirt was the only one 'warm and comfy'. Her comment just served to remind me of how, Friday night, she told me she had me to keep her warm.); the book she was reading when we hotbunked (which just served to remind me of how great it was to have her in my arms and in my bed, and if only we hadn't had an audience in the living room…); and the half dozen or so clues from the game I made up on Valentine's Day (which, again, only served to remind me of another opportunity for sex gone by, if only I had unplugged the damn phone and answering machine).
There is a battle of wills raging inside, between my intellectual half and my physical half. My intellectual half knows that there's more to our relationship than just a physical coupling. Mac means everything to me. She is the woman I want to call my wife, the mother of my children, my best friend and partner for life. When I envision my life with a house like the Roberts' new home and a marriage as strong and loving as theirs, Mac is inevitably featured in Harriet's role.
She is the one--The One--for me. No other woman has captivated me with her wit, her brilliance, her tenacity, her passion, her strength, her spirit, her beauty, and her vulnerability. I think I could live the rest of my life with her and never be bored or left wanting—she will always enamor me.
Then there's my other half, the one that incessantly reminds me 270 days and counting, Slick. The one that won't be quiet until I satisfy that um, ahem, urge.
I didn't take her up on her invitation to spend the night Friday night, and I think she was a little miffed and hurt. Perhaps I should've, but…
The truth is being around her and the inability to express how I feel—to show her (without being interrupted) how much she means to me—is driving me crazy. And, okay, the fact that I haven't had sex in over 270 days (and that's a very conservative tally) is probably factoring largely in my less-than-considerate behavior.
Actually, by Saturday night I was ready to admit I was acting like an ass, and that a night spent in Mac's company, be it lounging on the sofa watching Mac fold her laundry, or watching Alias (taped from last Sunday), or tangling together in the sheets, was a night spent in heaven.
Of course, like every other time in our relationship (when will you ever learn, Rabb?), it was too late to do anything about it. Sergei had come by earlier in the day, before Mac called, to sucker me into a night of poker with some of his new buddies. It was actually upon arriving at the poker game that I began to see what an idiot I was, because a smart man would have said yes to anything Sarah MacKenzie asked—especially when she was kissing the fire out of you while she was doing it—instead of agreeing to spend eight hours in something Capone's men wouldn't have even used for a hideout in a pinch.
Sunday I was all prepared to throw myself at her mercy, and beg her to forgive my inherent stupidity when it comes to things like this between us, but then the admiral called, naturally. It's like he has a sixth sense or something. Hmm…I wonder what Rabb is doing…I bet he's getting ready to go over to the colonel's and apologize for whatever stupid thing he's done this week. Hmm…I noticed they've been awfully…close…these past couple of weeks. And then there was his behavior on Valentine's Day…something's definitely going on between those too. I better call and make sure he's not compromising the integrity of the Navy. Or the colonel.
However, he did have a good excuse to call me yesterday, and what he told me about Bud's trial kept me occupied for the rest of the afternoon with strategies (should it for some insane reason go to court martial, but I would expect Sturgis wouldn't slam the lieutenant with that) and guilt. Bud asked for my help and all I could do was drool over my little foray in the library with Mac. What kind of officer and friend am I? Maybe if I had got my act together a little, Bud wouldn't be going through this.
Dammit, Rabb. If you're going to have a relationship with Mac you're going to have to show that it won't affect your focus and capabilities at work. So far you haven't done anything to prove that.
I arrive at work thoroughly annoyed and disgusted with myself.
*********
Just when you think you know someone. I can't believe Sturgis. I thought he was a good guy, someone who you could count on to help you in a fix. I thought wrong, apparently, and the realization, along with the information that Bud will face a court martial courtesy of Commander Turner's recommendation, does nothing to improve my crappy mood.
What annoys me even more is Sturgis seems surprised that I'm not impressed with his 'efforts' on Bud's investigation. Charging him with dereliction of duty due to neglect and culpable inefficiency. Unbelievable. Hasn't he ever had an off day in court? When I ask him that, he shakes his head no.
"What's it like to be perfect?" I snort in disgust. He just returns my glare with one of his own.
I take a few more jabs at him, not caring about using a friend and fellow officer as a punching bag for my frustration. But he catches me with a right hook I'm not prepared for.
"I'm Bud's friend, too, Harm. That's the whole of it."
*********
I'm surprised when I arrive at JAG to see Harm's SUV already in the lot before 0800. Twice in a month now. Previously, we were working a big case. I don't know what his excuse is today.
Harriet gives me an idea when she nervously asks if I have a meeting with the admiral, too.
"No. Not that I know of, Harriet. Is something going on?" Obviously the answer to that is "yes", MacKenzie. The admiral doesn't just hold meetings because he wants to know what everyone did over the weekend.
"You didn't hear, ma'am?"
"Hear what?" Apparently Harm has heard something if he's at JAG bright and early. Harriet nervously explains the situation with Bud and his trial against Singer.
"What do you think, ma'am? You think that Bud might be--?"
"I don't know, Harriet. I'm sure Commander Turner will give the lieutenant every consideration in his investigation. Commander Turner is very fair."
She nods, mulling over what I said. "I'm sure you're right ma'am. I'm just worrying over nothing." She gives me a weak smile and disappears out of the bullpen towards the library. The admiral's door opens and Sturgis walks out. I can't tell for sure by his step what his recommendation is, but when, a moment later, Harm marches out, I know it wasn't in Bud's favor.
Harm makes a beeline for Sturgis and soon I can just make out the angry hiss of their words before they disappear in Harm's office. The voices get louder, but I'm pulled away from the spectacle when my phone rings.
It doesn't matter—I know the outcome now. Bud's going to be court-martialed.
*********
When I reenter the bullpen, Harm and Sturgis are nowhere in sight, but Bud is shuffling towards his office.
"Bud, I heard. I'm sorry," I tell him.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Wish there was something I could do to help," I offer, knowing that Harm has been assigned as defense and grateful for that. There is no zealous defense attorney like Harm, especially when he's defending somebody who's being made a scapegoat, or when the client is a close friend. This court martial has elements of both in Harm's mind. I know he wasn't happy with Sturgis's findings and recommendation.
And even though I am sorry it happened to Bud, I think Sturgis's findings were fair, and the recommendation necessary to avoid the appearance of favoritism. I'm not going to voice this opinion to Harm, though. From what I've seen he's not exactly in an objective frame of mind right now, and he'd no doubt regard my comment as blasphemy.
"There is," a voice resonates behind me, and a moment later my handsome sailor appears, the scowl that has been present on his face since he came out of the admiral's office momentarily absent.
I haven't seen him since Saturday, since our botched attempt at a weekend getaway. Since we almost wound up in bed together. So damn close…now's not the time to focus on that, MacKenzie.
"You can take the stand. You can be our expert on JAG procedures," Harm continues.
"Bad idea," I reply. He does not look happy with my response, and even less so with my reasons, but he grudgingly acquiesces. Bud is more forgiving. Before Harm can start in—and I can see that he wants to—Harriet walks over. We all put on our best calm, neutral, faces, and greet her.
She looks at us closely. "There's going to be a trial."
*********
Somewhere along the way I must've really pissed somebody off--although, I can't pinpoint whom that somebody is. It's the only logical explanation for this day—a day straight from the fiery pits of hell.
Things still aren't quite right with Mac. Then of course, there's the whole fiasco with Bud, which is proving to be a nightmare within a nightmare. I think he's taking it better than I am. Then there was the conversation earlier with my mother. I've had root canals that were pleasanter.
It started out okay. The usual, "Hi mom, it's me" and her customary "Harm! Hello, darling, I was just thinking about you." Then the standard questions about how I'm doing, how's work, how's Mac—a turn in the conversation that lasted about ten minutes as I tried desperately to get us back on topic (any topic)—how's the gallery, how's she doing, how's Frank, before finally the cue to get down to business: "Was there something you needed, darling?"
Ten minutes later I hung up the phone and went in search of Mac, in need of her empathy and assurances that, despite whatever I was feeling, I was not the heartless, uncaring, ungrateful son I certainly had to be for asking my mother to part with such an important piece of my father. Those letters are all she has left of his memory—oh, and the son that looks just like him, who had the nerve to ask for those private, cherished letters to prove the legitimacy of her husband's other son.
The worst part is I understand why she doesn't want to give them up. I know how hard it is for her to accept…Sergei's existence. To accept that dad found comfort in another woman's arms, and even more, that dad fathered another child. It was hard for me to accept. But I could rationalize it, and that helped. It had been, after all, eleven years since his capture—that, deep in Siberia, he had to know he would most likely never get out, and never see either mom or I again. Maybe it was good that he found that little bit of comfort—and maybe, though it still hurts to admit it, happiness—before he died. She knows this as well as I.
Knowing something doesn't make feeling the pain any easier, however.
Anyway, I couldn't find Mac anywhere, and now I'm talking to Singer, trying to see if I can trick her into revealing her motive. Any misfortune that befalls Bud is an opportunity for her. She's shrewd enough to know how to play such an opportunity to her best advantage. And she's intelligent enough to know when to keep her mouth shut. As is the case now.
"That would be unfortunate, Commander," she replies to my comment regarding Bud's possible conviction.
"I bet you'd be real broken up," I remark sarcastically.
"Excuse me," she replies coolly, and slips away. I heave a sigh of disgust and frustration. Just as well.
"Harm!" Sergei. I know why he's here, too. Great. This day just keeps getting better and better.
"Is that Lieutenant Singer?" He asks, smiling happily.
"Yeah," I respond flatly.
"How is she?"
"Adorable as ever," I reply sourly.
"Have you talked to your mother?"
God. Here we go.
*********
"How's it going, Sailor?" I venture, against my better judgment. The Voice of Reason tells me that the stiff posture of his bent form, the deep furrow of his brow, and the unhappy line of his mouth mean his day has not improved in the slightest since it started.
He grumbles a response, and if there was any doubt as to the accuracy of my assessment, it's been shushed by his reply.
Still, gutsy Marine I am, I step into his office and close the door.
"I saw Sergei earlier."
He looks up from his reading and glowers at me, but his eyes are pained, and for the first time I see something beyond his frustration.
"Did you talk to your mom?" I ask cautiously. He looks back down at his desk and nods.
"Is she--?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, Harm. She'll come around. Just give her time."
"That's what I told Sergei," he snorts.
"Well, it's all you can do, Harm."
"It's not enough. Sergei's right. We don't have enough time. If we don't receive those letters soon he may be deported. And I can't push my mother—how does that look? Like I could give a rat's ass about my mother's feelings. I already feel like a bastard for even asking for the letters. I know how she feels about this whole situation."
"Hey," I admonish softly, "just give her a little time. I know how much you love your mother, Harm. And she knows it, too. She knows you're not doing this to hurt her. It's just hard having for her no longer having the monopoly on your father's legacy."
"Huh?"
"You, flyboy," I say, with a smile. "You're her son. Their son. You're so much like him. And now certain traits that you've inherited from your father may no longer be yours alone."
"I just feel so…"
"Helpless?"
"Frustrated."
Because you feel helpless, I think silently, but I should've known better than to think that Harm would admit to it.
"How's Bud's case going?"
"Don't ask," is the curt reply. "I can't believe Sturgis recommended this to court-martial."
"Harm, he's just doing his job. If Sturgis hadn't made that recommendation it would've looked like favoritism and you know it."
The 'hmph' I receive tells me he's at least somewhat receptive to the facts. I may not be burned at the stake for what I say next.
"Harm it's not fair to take this out on Sturgis. You know Sturgis considers the lieutenant a good friend, and I'm sure it was hard to have to come to the decision to charge him with D.O.D. 'due to neglect and culpable inefficiency.'"
"I've read the report, thank you," Harm mutters sullenly, and I know I'm starting to get my point across.
"Well, why don't you take a break from the case and come to McMurphy's tonight with me," I offer, changing the subject.
He leans back and gives me the first genuine smile I've seen from him all day. Feeling radiant, I grin in response glad to have elicited such a beautiful smile from my cranky sailor.
"I suppose I should," he muses.
"Why is that?"
"I owe you an apology for how I acted this weekend. Friday. I let…" he falters, and I lean forward in anticipation, knowing Harm doesn't stammer unless the subject matter is something uncomfortable. And uncomfortable with Harm generally means something of a personal nature. And that usually means his (intense) feelings regarding something or someone. And that someone is usually me.
"I acted like…I mean, it shouldn't have been that big of a deal that we couldn't spend time together…like we, you know, wanted to…what I mean is you mean more to me than just, ahem, uh, sex," he finally chokes out, and then speeds on by, "I mean, I certainly wasn't acting like a good friend when I just left you there with Jingo—how is he doing by the way?—and I'm sorry for acting like…well…a jerk." He looks at me with that pleading look that just says accept his inept apology so we can hurry up and forget about the whole thing.
I've just picked up on something, though, and I'm not about to let the matter drop just yet.
"I wish you could have stayed Saturday."
"Me, too," he sighs. "I had already promised Sergei I'd go to his card game with him."
"You could've stopped by after the game."
"We didn't get done until after two in the morning. I didn't want to wake you if you were asleep. I know how you are if you don't get your beauty rest," he says with a small grin.
"Marines don't require 'beauty' rest, unlike certain cranky squids," I tease. "Besides, I was up, thinking of you and keeping an eye on Jingo. He's doing better. Only one spell since Friday night. Eating a bit better, too. His tests show he has hypothyroidism, and the vet thinks that might be causing dizziness," I say, "so he's got him started on thyroid medication."
"That's good. And what do you mean cranky? I'm just tired, is all."
"Oh, is that all?"
"Yes. What would you call it?" he asks impatiently. I know what I would call it, and it's not sleep deprivation.
"Oh, I don't know what exactly I would call it. I suspect it's probably something that could be easily remedied. Maybe by a weekend away. Or a night like our Friday was shaping up to be before Mrs. Eckland and Jingo."
He avoids my eyes and doesn't respond right away and now I know I'm on to something. "I don't know about you, Harm, but I could certainly do with getting a certain sailor out of his shorts and into my arms."
"Can't say I feel that way," he finally replies.
"You don't?" I ask anxiously. Oh christ, I got it wrong. How could I have misread him? Because you've done it a dozen times before, MacKenzie, or does Sydney Harbor ferry ride not ring a bell?
"No. Now a marine," he continues, "I could certainly rid a marine of her greens."
Whew. Damn him for scaring the hell out of me like that.
"Maybe if you're a good sailor tonight a certain marine might just give you the chance."
He smiles again, his wide toothy grin, before growing serious again. "Mac, I, uh, don't want you to think all I want, uh, is…that. If we just spend the evening organizing your shoe collection that would be enough for me."
I smile, knowing what he's trying so ineffectually to say. I know he wants more than just sex from our relationship. I know I mean more than just that to him, that his feelings for me run much deeper than that, but has a difficult time expressing it in a manner which satisfies both of us (but bravo for the work he did on Vulture's Row). I also know he's a man, and I suspect it's been a long time since Harm's had relations. I also suspect that's been for me, for us. Since Renee broke up with him—since his crash—he's focused his efforts mostly on work and nursing the once fledgling friendship we shared. That subtle monogamy says more about his feelings for me than most words could. I have finally started paying attention to the little nuances of Harm, and I know his actions speak for him when words fail or are inadequate.
I can't imagine making love with Harm to be any different.
"Hmm, well, that's a very nice offer, Commander, but I'm sure we can find some more interesting and less lofty ways to occupy our evening. Unless you have an early curfew."
"Well, I should probably work some more on Bud's case tonight. Maybe we can skip McMurphy's and grab dinner. Maybe order a pizza, or something."
"Well, I promised Sturgis that I'd drop by."
"Sturgis?"
"Yeah, Sturgis is organizing a little shindig at McMurphy's. He asked me to invite you. I think he's still not sure whether you'd try to stuff his head in a file drawer." I give him a pointed look. He looks only slightly apologetic over his behavior. "He and Bobbi are going, and they invited me, you and the Admiral, too."
"Is the admiral going?"
"Yeah, he said he'd meet us there."
"If we go that means we can't act like we're seeing each other. And we can't arrive together. Or leave together."
"Yes, we can. We are, above all else, still friends, Harm," I point out. "We can carpool without being suspect."
"Actually, I need to talk to the admiral and Bud before the day's over. We probably won't be arriving together."
"So does that mean you're coming?"
"Yes, Marine, I suppose it does."
"Does that also mean you're going to give Sturgis a break?"
He scowls. I stare him down. He returns the look defiantly before he rolls his eyes, and mutters grudgingly, "I suppose."
"Good."
I exit his office feeling good. Once again a marine has stormed the beaches and come out with victory in her hands.