A/N: So, this tale begins a series of one-shots that have been inspired by various songs. This first one is Alice Cooper's 'Poison'. I love this song…the imagery amuses me, shocks me a little, and boy does it remind me of an angry post-Paraguay Harm. This particular track is a retelling of Harm and Mac's encounter from my story "Shifting Sands." It's from Harm's POV this time and yes, various words/phrases from the song are incorporated into it.

By the way, don't feel I've betrayed my 'open' stories like Gone. I write these shorter things to sort of cleanse my palate between chapters…

Soundtracks

Track 1: Poison Alice Cooper

Black Lace on Sweat

I never realized it before this, but the sound of glass breaking is extremely satisfying. There's the brief chime as the glass first strikes a hard surface, and then comes that delightful crackling crescendo of sound that almost hurts as it hits your ears.

I want to hear it again.

I grab another frame off the the shelf and throw it hard into the large black garbage bag I chose for this occasion, smiling a bit as its glass shatters when it hits the bottom of it. Two, three, four more pictures in their frames meet the same fate, and I'm struck by the sheer number of photographs I have had of her on display. One would almost think I loved her…

I feel an odd twinge in my chest, really more of a sharp stab in my heart, but I ignore it and continue on with my efforts to purge Sarah MacKenzie from my life.

Maybe then I can purge her from my heart…because right now she feels like a poison running through my veins.

God, how did everything get so screwed up with us?

So, maybe I did go off half-cocked to Paraguay, but no one else seemed to care that she had missed her check-ins. I didn't trust Webb to be able to get her out of whatever mess he'd got them in, and on that point I was right. What I hadn't been right about was her feelings for me…

I had images of her falling into my arms, finally telling her that I…well, loved her. Obviously, it didn't happen that way. She'd chosen Webb, despite the fact that he was responsible for nearly getting her killed.

For days before I left for Paraguay, I could almost hear her calling for me. Every dream, every nightmare I had ended with her dying…but not before she cried out for me…and the sound of her screams was like a thousand needles into my heart. I had to save her, or die trying, and save her I did…she's safe. She's healthy…she's with Webb…the same man who botched another mission and needed Mac and I to fix it…the same man who just welcomed me to the "Brotherhood." I was civil, even friendly with him today, even though I could just as easily have grabbed his pillow and pressed it into his smug little face; I suppose having Catherine Gale there as well was a buffer of sorts. I had half-expected Mac to show up after work, but maybe she likes to visit Webb late at night so they can be completely alone…

Once again, I am filled with anger at the woman whom I've always thought would be my future. I still can't believe how she just stood there beside me as the admiral gave me the dressing down of all dressing downs…sure, she offered a token "but he saved my life!" but it was half-hearted at best. She'd already coolly asked to return to her duties. The woman must have ice for blood.

I'm better off without her.

The trash bag has become heavy despite being only two-thirds full, and it weighs me down like a chain…a chain that I've never wanted to break before. A little voice inside me tells me I still don't want to break these chains of Mac's that have imprisoned my heart for so long, but I push it aside and head and pull open door of my loft. I need to throw these broken bits of my relationship with Mac down the garbage chute before I—

Mac…

Why is she here?

"Mac," I say, unable to keep a hint of scorn from my voice. I'd like to remain calm, neutral with her. I'd like to show her she doesn't affect me, but already I'm faltering. Her mouth curves up into a tiny, fake smile and she asks to come in. I almost slam the door in her face, but even as angry as I am with her, the gentleman in me that my mother, grandmother, and even Frank instilled in me won't let me. I step aside so she can enter my apartment, and then I toss the garbage bag just outside the door. I guess I'll throw it down the chute after she leaves. Maybe I'll make sure she sees what's in it first, though…

The two of us stare at each other for several seconds before she asks me some inane question. I wish she'd just get to the point of her visit quickly so I can get away from her. It incenses me that my body still responds to her appearance. She's wearing a black button-down blouse that is nearly boring in its simpleness, but the way it clings to the swell of her breasts makes parts of me twitch. It's the same with her smooth, toned legs, and I have to fight the urge to caress them with my eyes until they disappear underneath her short, flowing skirt. My heart still trips over itself when I gaze upon her beautiful face with its sensual lips. Her eyes are a dark golden amber and I wonder for a moment if she's been crying…there's a subtle hint of red about her lower eyelids, a slight puffiness that I came to understand long ago meant she'd either not slept or had succumbed to a rare crying jag. No, I tell myself, trying to ignore what I see. What could she possibly have to cry about? She still had her job, she was alive, she had a man of sorts…life's really just a big bowl of cherries for her. Still, though…

It's a struggle to not reach for her and run my thumb under her eye, caress her cheek, brush over her lips...

Inwardly, I curse. She's still under my skin and I'm still caught in her web. Damn her.

And damn her even more because she just told me why she came here today…she doesn't want me to join the CIA.

Newsflash, Mac. I don't want to join the CIA either, but I need a job, and it may as well be one where I can still fly. We argue about it for a moment, now standing nearly toe-to-toe, and then she has the nerve to turn away from me. Without thinking much about it, I make a grab for her and turn her back, and the next thing I know she's punching me hard in the chest. It knocks the wind right out of me; Mac has always known how to throw a punch, and I stare into her eyes that are now wide with shock. My eyes probably look similar, but then I hear her try to choke out something like "I'm sorry." She's breathing heavily and suddenly I remember that she had already been at Sadik's compound for several days before I got there.

What did they do to you, Mac, I wonder to myself, my brain shying away from what often happens to women held captive…

Mac admits that for a moment she had thought she was back in Paraguay, and I'm no longer angry with her. I want to hold her and I step forward the tiniest bit, but something inside tells me to stop. Instead, I find I have to ask the question whose answer could cut me to the core.

"Mac…honey…" The endearment just slips out and I wonder if she caught it…and I also wonder if I hope she did or hope she didn't…

"Did they…did they…hurt you?" I try to convey with my eyes what I mean since apparently, I can't bring myself to say the word 'rape.' I'm so relieved when she tells me they didn't that I close my eyes and thank the heavens that my marine wasn't violated in that way.

When my eyes open, I have every intention of pulling her into my arms and telling her I'm sorry I acted the way I did in Paraguay. I want to tell her to take back her never, though the logical part of my brain tries to remind that earlier today I called her poison. I ignore it and raise my arms just the tiniest bit, but then to my utter shock, she starts yelling at me. She's as mad as I've ever seen her, and the vitriol pouring out of mouth has me staring at her in shocked silence. She rants on and on, and a few times I try to break in, try to tell her she has it all wrong, but she never gives me the chance, for she reminds me of one of the more horrible things I've ever said about her and to her.

"At least if one of them did rape me, he'd most certainly die a horrible death—because, you know, 'anyone who's ever been with Mac is either dead or wishes they were,'" she shouts at me, and I'm instantly filled with shame.

If there is anything I regret when it comes to Mac, it's those careless words I tossed to Sturgis just before the Jagathon. At that point, I was still confused and hurt about her response to me when I showed up at the Guadalcanal after she'd run there to escape everything connected to me and her broken engagement to Mic Brumby. The words slipped out and she heard them, and it still pains me every time I picture the look in her eyes after that. You'd think I would have remembered that, though, as we discussed our 'relationship' in that wretched hotel in Paraguay.

And now I have to admit that I did remember it…I said the words again for the express purpose of hurting her so she would hurt just like I did when I realized she'd fallen for the spook.

I try to apologize to Mac, but she isn't done with me yet.

She reminds me of something else I've tried for years to forget…

All the women who are dead or feel like it because of their association with me…

Mac hits her mark with the same precision she hits her targets on the firing range. My eyes sting with unshed tears and I can't deny the truth of her words as she tries to apologize to me. It's clear she doesn't understand though…Gym, Diane, Jordan…I thought I loved them, and they died. With Mac, the feelings run so much deeper and you'd think she'd get it that I'm afraid to let it go with her with my track record…or 'death toll' as she referred to it as. I finally tell her as much, but I can tell she doesn't believe me, and then next thing I know we're arguing about us again. She accuses me have handing her off to Webb in Paraguay like a whore and she doesn't stop there. She's apparently under the very erroneous assumption that I think she is nothing more than a slut, a tramp, that she's only "Mac the Whore" to me.

It kills me that she's saying these things…I've never considered her a slut or a whore, and I've nearly come to blows with people when they've implied that she is that way. She continues to accuse me of that, though, and I feel sick inside because I know now that she's never gotten over what her father did to her. He called her those very same names, something she revealed to me during a conversation the night of our mission to the Sudanese Embassy. I'd taken her home and tended to her wounds, and we got to talking about my father and our trip to Russia. It morphed into a conversation about her father, and in a rare, unguarded moment, she told me about her father's accusations and insinuations. I didn't know what to say to that; all I could do was put my arm around her and hold her close, but now I wish I had done more, had told her how amazing I thought she was. I should have kissed her like I'd been wanting to since I kissed her on the docks of Norfolk. Like I'd been wanting to when she stepped out of the bathroom in a cold Russian hotel room wearing a particular white nightgown.

I didn't do any of that, obviously, and now here we are, me shouting at her to stop calling herself a whore as I grab her arms and give her a little shake. She accuses me of not wanting her, I accuse her of not wanting me, though nothing could be further from the truth, and I'm shocked when she hooks her fingers into the belt-loops of my pants and yanks me toward her. As my pelvis makes contact with her stomach, there's no controlling my reaction. My pants are suddenly too tight, and I war with pulling myself away from her or taking her right here in my living room.

Alarm bells are going off in my head now. I want to kiss her…I want it too much, really, but I know this isn't her. I know she can feel my erection straining against the zipper of my pants; it's obvious how great my need is right now and though I wish I could control it, I also want to push up her skirt and plunge inside her. I want to taste her…her lips…her sex…but I want it to mean something…

Don't I?

God, we probably won't even see each other again after this…would it be so wrong to give in to her.

Yes.

No.

Mac's words have grown ugly and all my senses are telling me to stop this. I almost do, but then she grabs my hand and presses up against the firm globe of her breast. My hand moves of its own accord, and I find myself kneading her flesh through her top and bra. My other hand lift moves around and under her shirt, and the silken feel of her skin beneath my palm damn near makes me come right there.

What are we doing Mac? What are you doing?

Her words have grown even uglier as she pops the button of my jeans and starts to work the zipper. I'd like nothing more than to have her wrap her fingers around my cock and stroke it, but this is all so wrong and I stop her hand, even as I scrape my thumb over her nipple. Even through her clothing I feel it harden and I know my cock has hardened more than it ever has before. It actually hurts and the combination of desire, lust, and confusion at both of our behavior of late is bubbling out of me in the form of anger, fury. It roils up from within like lava from a volcano and my resolve to hold back from her is weakening by the second. Her gaze has turned smug and I know she can sense what I'm feeling as she unbuttons the first couple of buttons on her blouse and grabs my hand from where it still rests on her breast. She lifts it to her mouth and gives it a lick, the flick of her tongue causing the world to tilt and lurch. I'm almost dizzy as she runs the moistened finger down her throat and chest. She succeeds now in undoing my pants and soon she has my penis in her hand, pulling it through the gap in my boxers as she lowers herself to her knees.

Mac don't…don't…my eyes close in ecstasy as her tongue travels the length of my cock from its base to the head of it. Her tongue swirls around the tip, where precum is already leaking out. I'm embarrassed by that. I'm angry that she is doing this, that it is affecting me this way. I'm furious that I'm going to give in to her.

"Goddammit, Mac!" I shout as I lift her to her feet and push her backward until she hits the wall. My lips crash down on hers and suddenly I'm tasting her sweet poison. If she wants it this way, who am I to deny her?

What follows is a frenzy of hands on buttons as we work to divest each other of our clothing. I kiss her again and again; I taste blood and I don't know if it's hers or mine and I don't care. She has me entirely freed from my pants but before she can go any further, I have her shirt off and my hand against her unclothed mound. She's soaking wet as my fingers dive inside her center and it won't be long until I give in completely and exchange my fingers with my throbbing cock.

My fingers pull away from her core and she whimpers, while I push up her skirt and run my hand from her buttocks down the back of her leg, lifting it to rest over my hip and then I'm inside her. Her other leg goes around me as well and then she's entirely locked around me. There's no easing into her. There's no giving her time to adjust to my length. I pound into her, becoming utterly primitive as my ability to speak degenerates into mere grunts and growls. She feels so good, so tight and her whimpers and cries and moans make me move even more frantically.

I've become utterly depraved…

God, I should be loving her but instead I want to make this hurt just so I can hear her screaming my name. She truly is poison racing through my veins and with each punishing kiss I taste even more of her venom. Her mouth is hot on mine as her nails scrape over my neck and back. She has to be leaving angry red gashes over my skin and I relish it. Our bodies grow wet from our efforts as I thrust into her, and the sight of the black lace of her bra against the sheen of her sweat-soaked skin makes me want to bury myself entirely and empty everything I have into her. I move my mouth over her lips, her jaw, trace the rim of her ear with my tongue. She whimpers and tells me she's close, and I grind into her now with every fevered thrust. I don't want this to end but I can feel that familiar tightening in my groin, and with one last, violent thrust I'm pouring myself into her with a shout that is ripped from the depths of my soul. She comes around me just as violently and for a moment I think I black out.

It's just a moment, however, and awareness returns all to soon. I start to slip out of her but she tightens her legs around me, keeping me in place, and god help me, I wish I could stay here forever…

Because now all the anger is gone. The weight of what we've just done settles around us, and I don't know what to do to make this all okay. I rest my forehead against hers and risk opening my eyes. I wish she'd look back at me, so I whisper her name, softly.

"Sarah?"

The sound of her given name so rare on my lips startles her and her eyes open. I try to convey how sorry I am with just a gaze. I want to lift her into my arms and carry her to my bed just so I can hold her and tell her I love her and that I'm sorry…so sorry…but at the shattered look in her eyes, I know I can't do any of that. I have to let her go, I know, but it takes a plea from her for me to finally pull out of her. I steady her as her feet return to the ground and for the first time, I realize we didn't use any protection. My reckless behavior has put her in danger…I know I'm clean, but I don't know if she's on any birth control and as my stepfather told me repeatedly before I left for the Academy, "a gentleman always asks." I've always insisted on using a condom, even with Rene, but this time…once again, I've let Mac down…and the repercussions could be disastrous.

Okay, a baby wouldn't be a disaster, but I doubt Mac would want to have a baby with a man who used her so carelessly. Yes, she was a willing participant…but I should have walked away. If I had I wouldn't be seeing that bereft look in her eyes as indicates she needs to go to the bathroom and clean up.

I watch her retreating back disappear up the stairs and I wish she would let me help her, hold her…but I have no right to do that. My actions have destroyed an eight-year friendship, and I don't deserve to love her.

I really never have.

Hours later, my loft is heavy with silence and yet I can still catch the whisper of her scent. It wraps around me, but it isn't comforting. It speaks of her despair. It speaks to the shattered look on her face as she pulled away from me. It speaks to the utter destruction of a friendship that has meant more to me than any relationship I've ever had…

And more than anything…It speaks to the death of any hope I've ever had when it comes to us…hope that we'd be together, have a family, grow old together, love each other before dying in each other's arms.

It was a beautiful fantasy, and now it is forever lost to me.

Earlier, in my despair, I had retrieved the bag of broken pictures and memories of Sarah MacKenzie. I dumped it on the floor and then sat amongst the ruins, each shattered bit of glass mocking me. Now, I glance down her smiling face as she gazes up from a photo taken at little AJ's christening. My vision blurs as it seems to morph into her white, pinched face of today, and then I'm sobbing into my hands.

End Track 1