PART TWENTY-FIVE:

***********

I drift slowly awake; the firm pull of consciousness causing me to dig in my heels.  I've never slept better in my life.  The closest thing in recent memory is that night I hot-bunked with Harm in his bed. 

Well, just another reason to keep him beside me.  I'm sure Harm would agree.  Besides, he's always concerned with the little amount of sleep I usually get.

Finally I give up the fight and allow my eyes to open.  I stare at the ceiling taking in what little sounds and sights are available to orient me.  I'm chagrined to say my internal clock is probably at least an hour or so off.  By my best reasoning it's still early morning, maybe 0730 or so.

The only sounds to serenade me come from my bed partner as he inhales noisily every third or fourth breath.  I'm too tired and warm and cozy to even try to get out of bed yet.  The fire's long since gone out so I know outside this bed and these covers a chilly hardwood floor and room awaits me.  Nope, better to just lie here and keep warm.  I turn my head to Harm and allow his presence to engage me for a while.

He looks happy, the corners of his mouth turned up in a satisfied smile.  Then again, I made his night twice last night.  His head is turned toward me, an arm slung out once again to cover my waist.  One beautifully sculpted cheek is plainly visible, eyelashes as dark and silky as his hair resting lightly against his flesh.  A dense peppering of whiskers mars his profile.  I reach over and as lightly as possible, so as not to wake Harm, I run my fingers over it.  It feels scratchy and bristly, like very fine sandpaper.  I close my eyes and imagine the gentle scrape of his skin over mine as he trails kisses over me.  Heavenly.  I open my eyes again and allow my gaze to drift down. 

Unfortunately, Harm's lying on his stomach so I can't admire the finer points of his masculinity.  I do take a moment to appreciate his well-toned six before my attention is drawn to that ugly scar along his lower back.  There's another mark along the hip closest to me.

I trail my hands along his spine gingerly, almost afraid to touch it and even more uncertain of what Harm's reaction might be if he should awaken to me doing so.  I highly doubt he would get angry, but I know he does not like to dwell unnecessarily on his first crash (or his second for that matter) and would most likely tense up at any attention given to it.  Not that I blame him.  There are incidents in my life that I'm not too eager to discuss, even with Harm.

I finger the slightly raised, taut skin of his scar and wonder if the fallout from the incident still pains him physically.  I know enough about Harm's crash, and similar incidents, to know that if the parachute does not have enough time to deploy properly you're coming down hard.  And a common injury related to that are broken bones, cracked vertebrae and other spinal injuries. 

The problem is, with the injuries sustained from his latest ejection it's hard, for me at least, to tell whether the aches and pains are new or just a reappearance of an existing, and now exacerbated, problem.  And that's what few little aches and pains I can discern.  Harm, being Harm, rarely lets on when he's hurting and tends to be dismissive of his discomfort.

I know he's not immortal or as untouchable as everyone thinks, but it seems weird sometimes to imagine him otherwise.  To think the normally sure-footed, confident Harm may have been vulnerable, scared, and confused.  Sometimes even I, who knows better, get caught up in the idea that Harm may be invincible. 

I bring my fingers up to my lips and then press them gently against the small of his back.  My mind flickers to the courtyard outside of JAG, shortly after I met a dashing aviator-slash-lawyer named Harmon Rabb.  I knew nothing of his past, his crash, though an aviator working as a JAG it seems I should have guessed that nothing less than catastrophic would have him there.  What pilot would willingly chuck his gold wings for a billet as a desk jockey?

It was our first case opposing.  We were sitting outside having lunch, discussing the case—or rather Harm's rapidly diving, going down in flames assertion of the defendant's guilt, and that's when it started.

"When you grasp for straws like that letter, maybe it's time to punch out."

"Punching out is the last thing a pilot ever wants to do.  People think you get in trouble pull the magic handle and float safely to the ground.  Every time you punch out you end up an inch shorter."

I feel a rush of color to my cheeks, remembering the intensity of his statement—a statement borne of experience—and how I ignorantly just laughed it off.

"No problem, commander.  You got a few inches to spare." 

I felt so foolish later, when I understood.  I felt I should have known better.  But I didn't know at all.  Harm certainly never mentioned it.  When I first met him I asked what's a JAG doing with wings.  He smiled, the pain well hidden and replied glibly, "I'm part of a new program to try and boost their image." When I pressed him, he said he had a problem with his eyes that left him night-blind and therefore unfit for carrier duty.  It was clear from his tone that that was all there was to say on that subject.

Later, a couple of weeks after I had made that remark in the courtyard, I went in search of Bud and wrangled as much of the story of Harm's crash, and the investigation and incidents aboard the Seahawk--when he first met Bud—that led to the reinstatement of his wings.

Later still, I had a better understanding of events when Harm and I were on board investigating the charges from the crossing-the-line ceremony.  I'd like to have decked that DeLong woman for what she said to Harm.  I knew enough of his history by then.  One good marine headlock would have been nice.  Harm even offered up a little information, after he pulled Skates to safety, when I checked to see if he was all right.  Most of what he had to say I already knew from what I pieced together, but it wasn't really the content but the context that was important.  He was confiding in me because he trusted me.  After that, we never really spoke of his crash again, but I was left with a better understanding and appreciation of Harmon Rabb, Jr.

The intensity and complexity, the strength and vulnerability; this seeming enigma that comprises the most incredible man I know.

I can't imagine my life now without him.  I roll to my side, close my eyes, and drift off to sleep.

*********

I wait until her breathing levels out, indicating she is most likely asleep, and then open my eye cautiously.

A fist is curled up underneath her chin as she lies on her side facing me, her other hand buried underneath her pillow.  I watch her sleep, the feel of her fingers so recently still tingling along my spine.

She found my scars.  Not that I wanted to, or could, hide them from her.  It's just, inevitably, with every relationship I've been involved in, the question of how and why they are there always comes up.  Usually I just give as brief and vague an explanation as possible, and then either get down to business or go to sleep. 

I can't do that with Mac, though.  She deserves better than the universal, one-size-fits-all Rabb preclusion.  Fortunately, she can reason out the basic how and why they are there.  I never told her about afterwards; when they airlifted me to the hospital and put me in traction.  And the surgery.  And the PT.  And that's just the physical aspect.  Some of that stuff is just better left unsaid, in my opinion.

I pull the covers away from me and slip out of bed.  As we weren't quite so zealous in our lovemaking last night I'm able to find my boxers with reasonable ease.  I quietly make my way to the bathroom to answer nature's call.

I take a good look in the mirror and find my reflection grinning happily back.  I almost don't recognize my own self I look so happy and content.

I haven't felt so at ease in years.  I swear as I lean closer to the image in the mirror that I look younger, by at least five or six years.  It must be the lighting, I decide.  Or lack there of.  You can hide a load of sins in the dark.  Aging is one of them.  But try as I might, I can find little evidence of the deep lines and dark circles and the puffiness that has taken up residence around my eyes since my drop into the Atlantic.  I flip on the light over the mirror and peer closer.  And what happened to the deep lines that crease my forehead?  I scrunch up my face and note with some satisfaction that one or two are still there—but on closer inspection I must conclude they don't seem as deep.

Still, it has to be the lighting.  Fluorescent lighting has never captured anyone's appearance accurately.  Even Mac's flawless skin sometimes looks more yellow and sallow than I know it could possibly be.

I look thinner, too, I decide.  More fit.  Not quite the slim, sexy stud of my roaring twenties, and even my early thirties, but I don't have to suck it in nearly as hard or deep as, say, six months ago.

Is this the result of a quiet physical change—my body slowly regaining the equilibrium offset by my crash?  Or the result of a subtler effect?  Mac.  Is this what letting go and allowing myself to fall in love with Sarah MacKenzie has done to me?  The smiling moron before me seems to indicate yes.  I find myself agreeing and liking the effect.

I stare at myself for a few minutes longer, pondering this profound revelation.  This epiphany only serves to strengthen an idea that has been growing steadily since its inception.  I nod firmly to myself.  Yup, I'm gonna do it.

I'm going to ask Sarah MacKenzie to marry me.

**********

Of course, I didn't mean today.  No, today's not a good day.  I mean, yeah, we're happy—okay, Mac's ecstatic.  Okay, okay.  So am I.  We're both in amazingly good spirits.  This little cape cod rendezvous was the best decision we've ever made. 

But still.  That's just the afterglow, right?  We still haven't come down from our first night together.  Would I really want to ask Mac to marry me now?  I mean, if she says yes, will it be the afterglow talking or Mac talking?  We don't want to rush into anything, especially anything Mac may not be ready for or sure of.  She may be over Brumby but is she ready to start planning another wedding again?  (And is she really over Brumby?)

And plus, what am I gonna say?  Shouldn't I rehearse or something?  Practice?  Sarah, of all people, of all my relationships deserves that little extra care.  I mean, she is The One.  The One.  If I'm going to ask her to marry me, I should really think of doing something romantic. 

I mean, am I going to get down on one knee and look deeply into her eyes and tell her how much I love her and that she's the one I want to spend the rest of my life with?  That's traditional, but traditional is still romantic.  Or just say it like it's spur of the moment.  I could say it now. 

Yeah, I could just ask her now.  Spontaneity.  That's romantic.

"Mac will you marry me?"

I look at her and realize that's not what I said at all.

"You think so?  I kind of like the blue one."  She holds up the other T-shirt.

"Yeah, that's nice, too."  I offer a weak smile and return to my thoughts.

Dammit.  Smooth, Rabb, smooth.  Well, obviously it won't do to ask her to marry me if I can't even get the words to form past my mouth. 

And besides, I should really have a ring.  I mean, how does it look if I get down on one knee and have no engagement ring to present her.  It should really look like I put some thought into this and not just let the effect from finally having sex after a nine-month deprivation talk me into a major commitment.

Speaking of ring, I still need to get my hands on one of hers.  Preferably the Marine Corps one, as I know it fits like a glove.  I glance at her hand and feel my eyes widen with surprise.  It's not there.  I look again, trying to be inconspicuous but as far as I can tell she's not wearing it.  Where is it?  Damn, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!

I grab her hand and pull it up to my lips; yup, it's definitely not there.  She looks at me in surprise and smiles, trying not to let on how much she enjoys these impromptu romantic gestures.  Idly, she flips through a couple of clothing racks.  And then turns to a beam covered with magnets.

"What was that for?" She asks, casting a quick glance at me before picking up a magnet in the shape of the island.

"Do I need a reason?"

She shakes her head no.  I rub my finger over the knuckles of the hand I'm still holding before raising it up again.  "Where's your ring?" I ask innocently.  Or at least what I hope is innocently and wholly unsuspicious.

She casts a passing glance at her hand and turns her attention back to souvenirs.  "Oh, I took it off last night.  I just forgot to put it back on."  A sly smile spreads across her face as she drifts close to whisper, "You made me forget this morning."  She pops a kiss on my cheek and hands me her items accumulated thus far.  "Hold these."

Both her hands free, she turns with gusto to the knick-knack collection. 

"You know where it is?"  Okay, that definitely sounded suspicious.  Better cover it before you draw her attention.  "'Cause I don't want you to lose it."  Oh, brilliant, Rabb. 

"Yeah.  It's in the bathroom, next to your shaving kit." 

Argh! I groan inwardly, hoping I can keep the grimace off my face.  How could I have missed it?  Fleetingly I wonder if there's any way I can distract her here and run back to our room to get it, and then…what?

"Are you getting anything?" I glance up to find her large brown eyes staring inquisitively at me.

I shake my head no, and note a flicker of disappointment.  "Knick-knacks aren't really my thing, Mac," I add dryly and that seems to appease her.  "No, no," I say hastily, seeing her about to replace her bell, "keep looking around.  If I see something I want I'll grab it."  I make a show of looking around the gift shop, taking in the shirts and sweatshirts, magnets, even models of 17th- and 18th-century ships, decks of cards and clocks, before my eyes flicker back to Mac.  She's the only thing in here that I really want.  I think of my last statement and approach her, awkwardly slipping my arms around her (trying not to drop all her souvenirs).

"What are you doing?" she giggles.  I bend my head around and plant a kiss on the juncture of her jaw and neck.  "Well, I told you when I see something I want I'll grab it." 

"Harm," she says pulling away and smiling radiantly at me.  A few people are looking at us.  I do my best to ignore them, but I have to say this isn't the usual decorum I display out in public with a woman.

"Don't you at least want a magnet or something?"  She holds one up.

No, I want you in my bed and in my arms and in my life forever.  That would be the best souvenir of all from Nantucket.  I take the magnet and add it to her pile.

"Yeah, thanks." 

**********

Another opportunity has gone by in the quest for the ring. 

Well, I mean, I could've said no to Mac, but if presented with the chance to share a tub with a wet, naked marine or shower alone, which, I ask, would you choose?

That's what I thought.

So, I'm out in the bedroom shrugging into my sports coat and straightening my tie, semi-devising an alternate plan for capturing the ring, while she finishes getting ready. 

Okay, so mostly I'm just reliving our little bath time experience.  But, just behind those memories is the lingering thought of how to get a hold of Mac's ring.  Really.

This time while I was shaving I took note of my surroundings and sure enough, I found it lying in the soapdish along with her watch.  However, Mac was still toweling off in there with me so any moves to confiscate it obviously were delayed.  Actually, I was having a hard enough time trying not to nick myself as I watched her in the mirror without adding sneaky moves to my plate.

Damn, she made a good show of toweling off, too.  Sarah MacKenzie in and out of a towel with a tattoo visible to boot (if you know where to look…and, if I might add just a bit smugly, I do). 

Two fantasies once, now reality.

"Why are you smiling so smug?"

"Who says that I am?"

"Me.  You've got your cocky, flyboy grin on."

"My flyboy grin?"

"Yeah."

"This wouldn't be that 'very nice smile, commander' that you claim has no affect on you whatsoever."

She grins, as we both know she's kidding herself if she thinks it doesn't affect her.  I know it's a part of me she finds irresistible.  She mentioned it last night.

"That would be the one."

"Hmm.  That would contradict what you told me earlier, counselor."

"Well, if you're referring to the 'discussion' we had last night, I think any judge would rule that confession was coerced, and therefore inadmissible."

"Oh really?"  She nods smiling so wide her cheeks must hurt.  "We'll see," I promise.

"Tonight's our last night together here in Nantucket."

"All the more reason to make it a good one.  I think you'll like what I have planned," I add smugly. 

"I know you'll like what I have planned," she hints seductively.

"I'm sure I will."  If it involves the removal of that heart-stopping dress she has on then I'm positive I will.

"Care to share any hints?"

"And spoil the surprise, marine?  You insult me."

"Mmm.  Too bad.  My surprise is guaranteed by Victoria's Secret to elicit jaw-dropping, pulse-racing, temperature-rising results.  And that's only part of the surprise," she whispers breathily.

Damn.  I wonder what the other part is.

"Well," I say, trying to summon a few competent sentences from the void she just made in my brain.  "Well.  Uh… "

"Are you ready to go eat?" She asks sweetly, helping me out.

"Yeah.  Yeah, let me just grab our room key."

I lock the door behind us and flash a quick smile at those dark brown pools following my every move.  I allow her to precede me, mostly so I can admire the woman before me, but I can't go any further without letting her know how much she and this time alone has meant to me.

"Sarah," I say, stopping.  "Thank you."  Thank you seems ridiculously inadequate.  I futilely try to think of something that will convey what I am feeling.  Her expression softens and I'm so amazed that she seems to know exactly what I mean that I hardly dare hope that's the case.  She slips her arms around my neck and gazes at me intently.  "You're welcome," she replies.  "And thank you."  Maybe things are getting back to the way they used to be.  I close my eyes as I feel her warm lips press against mine.  Then again, out with the old and in with the new.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Excuse me," a voice interrupts.  We break our kiss, but not our embrace.  "Good evening, Mrs. Paxton," I say.

"Good evening, Mr. MacKenzie.  Mrs. MacKenzie.  Going out?" 

"Yes, we are, Mrs. Paxton," I reply without taking my eyes off Sarah.

"Would you like a fire ready in your room at your return?"

"Yes, Mrs. Paxton.  Yes, we would," Sarah answers and Mrs. Paxton goes bustling off, her call for Sam still ringing in our ears. 

"It's not over yet, Harm," she reminds me softly.  "We haven't even got to the good stuff," she adds with a playful smile.

Yes, we have.  This weekend was just the icing on the cake.  Or maybe she's right.  Maybe this weekend is only the beginning of something culminated by marriage and children and a lifetime together.  I smile at the thought and stare into those chocolate orbs I could drown in forever.  "It's been incredible already, Sarah."

**********

"Think we should get out of bed?"

"Mmfftshmnpotffdn?"

"What?"  I have no idea what he just said.  He lifts his mouth away from the pillow and tries again. 

"Who wants to get up out of bed now?  I can hardly move, Mac.  Let's sleep in."

"You're going to have to get up sometime.  We have a plane to catch this afternoon."

A short breeze blows across my neck and shoulder as he sighs.  "I know.  Don't remind me."

I roll on my side to face him trying not to wince at the amount of effort the gesture takes.  Things got a bit more…intense…last night.  "It's 0913."

He opens one eye.  "So?"

"So, we have just over six hours to decide how we're going to spend our last day here on the island."

"I already gave you my suggestion.  Staying in bed is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time."  He closes his eye again.

"A lazy way."

"It's Sunday.  The day of rest.  We can be lazy."

I make a point of sighing loudly.  "Squids."  A green eye peers out at me.

"I beg your pardon, marine?"

"Well, I should have known they don't have the conditioning to keep up with a marine."

"It has nothing to do with being a squid.  I'm an old man, Mac."

I snort.  "Well, you still do pretty well for an 'old man'."

"Not going to put me out to pasture yet?"

Even with half his face buried in his pillow I can still see a self-satisfied smile peeking out. 

"No, not yet."

It's quiet for a moment while he digests this.  "Hey Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I ever tell you that joke about how a marine's like the energizer bunny?"

"Yellow light, commander."

"Yellow light?  What?  Your comment on conditioning just reminded me of it."

"Red light, commander."

"You're giving me a red light?  It was green lights all the way last night.  And really, Mac, aren't we past the point of traffic signals?"  He props his head up on one elbow and traces a finger across my breastbone.  "I mean, circumstances would seem to indicate yes."  He leans over me and softly presses his lips against mine before trailing them down my neck and collarbone.  I caress the silky strands of his short hair before guiding his mouth back to mine.

"Perhaps" I concede.  He smiles, kisses me again and returns his attention to his favorite attributes, his touch tender and loving. 

We compromise by spending a little less than half our remaining time on the island in bed.

***********

"You found them?"

"Yes!" I state triumphantly, going to flash my previously unaccounted for undergarments in victory before remembering that waving my dirty underwear around is probably not something I really want to do.  I wad them up into a ball and stuff them into a corner of my bag.  "Is that everything?" I survey our room, noting with satisfaction that it looks respectable.

"Just my shaving kit and your makeup bag," he says coming out of the bathroom.  "Here."  He hands me the makeup bag and I stuff it carefully into a side pocket of my carry-on. 

I watch Harm organize his belongings, admiring the long lean line of his figure, the recently shampooed hair slicked back with styling mousse, the clean-shaven face appearing smooth and achingly soft.  I remind myself that just because we're returning home doesn't mean that's it for us.  Going back to JAG doesn't mean we can't be together.  But in a way, it does.  Or does it?

"What happens when we get back?"

"What do you mean?"

"To DC.  To JAG."

He looks away for a moment and shrugs.  "We carry on as before."

My heart almost plunges into my stomach.  "What?" I whisper.  He looks at me sharply then.

"You don't think I mean—Mac!  I don't mean it like that.  I just mean we keep pursuing this relationship.  Quietly."

I almost laugh in relief.  For a moment I did think he meant something else.  Something awful and wholly unacceptable after this weekend.

"Harm, I don't want to hide and sneak around.  It's not against the rules for us to pursue a romantic relationship."

"I know Mac.  I'm not saying that we do hide and sneak around.  All I'm saying is that we don't advertise the fact we're seeing each other outside of work.  I could personally do without all the office scrutiny, I don't know about you."

Okay, I admit I'm not exactly thrilled about the twenty questions and the eyes and ears following our every move and conversation—they do that now and it's annoying.

"Well I'm not going to lie if someone asks," I say.  "If one of our friends ask," I amend thinking that if Singer asks I certainly would seriously consider it if I thought it put us at an advantage.

"I'm not asking you to, Mac.  And I wouldn't want you to.  I don't intend to lie to Sturgis or the admiral or Harriet if they ask a direct question.  But at the same time, I'm gonna downplay or deflect as much heat away from the topic as I can."

Knowing Harm's penchant for vague statements and half-truths I'm sure the office will have quite a challenge trying to decipher his generally ambiguous answers on the subject of "us". 

**********

I note the bright sunny blue sky with a stab of sadness.  My prayers for a hurricane or some otherworldly natural disaster have gone unanswered.  I suppose for the people of Nantucket, that is good news.  For Harm and I it means most assuredly that we will be departing for Logan and Dulles as scheduled.

Harm's settling the bill with Mrs. Paxton.  I gave him my credit card so we could continue the charade of a married couple a little bit longer.  I admit I didn't want to disappoint Mrs. Paxton's assumption.  Even though it doesn't have quite the same ring as Mr. and Mrs. Rabb, Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie has a distinctive sound.  And Harm didn't seem to mind that everyone (well, okay, maybe not everyone) was laboring under the impression we were newlyweds or something.  I decided that if he wasn't going to take issue with it then I shouldn't either. 

"Ready?" Harm asks, coming to stand beside me.  He hands me back my Visa and tucks the receipt into his shirt pocket.

"Yeah."

***********

We trudge down the walk and up the steps into my building.  Our entire trip has been conducted mostly in silence, both of us winding down from our weekend and mentally preparing for the day tomorrow.  At least that's what I've been doing since we boarded our 727 to Dulles.  Trying to retrain my body and mind not to act on impulses I gave way to over the weekend.  The impulse to touch Harm is one of the strongest and hardest to restrain.

I stop by Mrs. Eckland's apartment and pick up Jingo, Harm waiting patiently outside in the hall as I thank Mrs. Eckland and say goodbye.  Jingo wags his tail happily at the sight of Harm, sniffs his shoes and pant leg and looks to me as if we're about to embark on an exciting journey, instead of coming back from one.

Together we all make the short jaunt to my apartment as I pick up where I left off in my thoughts.  I'm a marine, and I will conquer it.  Tomorrow I will be the squared-away, no-nonsense marine colonel JAG lawyer.  Harm will be, well, not nearly as squared-away and no-nonsense—well, suffice to say, Harm will be Harm.  Late as always, just that smidge or two behind on paperwork, always in control of his emotions, and the accomplished and charming Navy attorney.

But that's tomorrow. 

Tonight…

I smile as I close the door to my apartment behind us.  Harm drops our bags on the ground.  Both he and Jingo look expectantly at me, as though waiting for my decision about something.  As I stare back into those intense, green eyes, I make it. 

Tonight he's mine and no one else's.