Trust - part one

~ Trust - to believe in and rely on; consign to someone's care; expect or hope. ~

English Dictionary definition 2002

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"'Stop that train!' the Fat Controller shouted as Thomas the Tank Engine rolled through the station..."

Sighing inwardly, Lt Colonel Sarah Mackenzie tried to relax as the toddler sitting on her lap snuggled further into her shoulder. She'd read this bedtime story to AJ more times than she could remember and the words came automatically, her distracted mind not concentrating on the book in her hand at all. Not that her godson seemed to have noticed; his lips curled up in a sleepy smile, he was making soft choo-choo noises as she read to him.

For a second the dark cloud hovering over her lifted and she let herself enjoy the moment. Pulling AJ closer she closed her eyes and let the touch of his baby soft hair on her cheek and the warmth of his small body give her some much needed peace. Moments like these were precious and she silently sent a thank you to Bud and Harriet for letting her share them; for knowing that tonight she needed a moment like this.

But that was all it was: a moment. A small hand tugging on hers brought her back to the present and she found herself looking down into a pair of confused, sleepy blue eyes. With an effort she smiled, a weak effort she knew but it seemed to work. Feeling like a total fraud she watched his eyes flicker closed, his face peaceful as his hand trustingly reached out for hers and he fell asleep.

Trust. How did children trust so easily as that? And why did adults find it so hard to do the same?

With an angry shake of her head she dismissed that thought. She knew the answer of course she did: experience taught adults not to trust. Sometimes it taught children not to trust either. But was there a way to teach someone how to trust, to gain it back, no matter how painful the betrayal of that trust had been?

As the events of the day replayed in her mind and the feeling of guilt reared its ugly head, she hugged AJ closer to her, using the world of Thomas the Tank Engine and the innocent dreams of a two year-old child as a shield against the real world. The task ahead of her looked impossible: a case of the blind leading the blind. What if there was no way back, no way to regain Harm's trust? What was she supposed to do then?

**********

~ Three days previously ~

"Morning, sir. It's good to have you back."

With a nod and a tight-lipped smile, Commander Harmon Rabb Jr acknowledged the greeting of the young Marine guard posted at the entranceway to the bullpen. As he walked past him, taking the familiar journey around the edge of the room to his office he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The Marine was watching him, following his every move. Ignoring the perverse temptation to stop and call the hapless soldier on his behaviour Harm forced himself to carry on. The Marine hadn't been the first person to watch him with morbid fascination that morning; no doubt he wouldn't be the last.

'That'll teach you to get shot outside the JAG HQ,' his dry sense of humour whispered to him, making a rare appearance as it broke through his dark thoughts for the first time in weeks. 'Bet the bullpen rumour mill has been chewing over this one ever since it happened.'

'Chewing over it and condemning you,' his dark mood finished for him as he came to a halt outside his office. Well, that was something he was going to have to face. He was ready for it. He deserved it.

Guilt had got him out of his apartment that morning and to the office. But now he was there he was discovering guilt wasn't enough to keep him going. Sweaty palms and a mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert weren't something he was used to experiencing whilst standing outside his own office. And the concerned eyes of the Marine guard were still watching him, drilling through the back of his head.

Concern was one thing he didn't need. With a barely concealed grunt of annoyance he opened his office door and pushed his way through, slamming it behind him. Throwing his cover and briefcase on the table, he dropped into his chair. This was stupid, he reminded himself not for the first time that morning. It was just a journey into the office, a journey he'd made more times than he could count. A journey he'd been in the process of making four weeks before when Petty Officer Robinson had stopped him not 300 yards away from where he was sitting now and all hell had broken loose.

All hell breaking loose sounded like such an incongruous way to describe what had happened, he realised, considering that at the end of it all one man had ended up dead, another seriously injured. But that was exactly what had happened. One moment he'd been driving up to the HQ building, his mind on the case ahead of him that day, the next he'd been biting back anger, annoyed that Robinson had suddenly appeared at the side of the road, waving him down for no obvious reason at all. And then all hell had broken loose...

With a shake of his head he forced himself to focus on something other than the vivid images in his head. His office looked neat he noted clinically, carefully taking a deep breath to slow the painful drumming of his heart. Harriet's work he decided, the box of pink and green tissues that had appeared on top of his filing cabinet looking suspiciously like something she would buy. And the pile of files on his desk had been arranged with military precision, the corners matched perfectly. Bud's work probably or perhaps Mac's. He couldn't decide which.

Not Mac's, his mind pointed out logically. She'd been TDY at Norfolk and apart from a brief visit to his apartment when he'd first been discharged from Bethesda, he hadn't seen her since. She'd left messages of course, both at his apartment and at La Jolla, when his mother had insisted that he shouldn't be alone during his recuperation. He'd hadn't returned them though; too exhausted to care he'd slept through much of his sick leave.

Just one more thing to feel guilty about, Rabb. One more on top of so many others. And once Mac found out how he had treated Petty Officer Robinson in the run up to when all hell had broken loose, he wasn't sure she would talk to him ever again.

Whatever. He'd have to deal with it. He was ready. Straightening up his shoulders, he bit back a hiss of pain as his shoulder delivered an unsubtle reminder that perhaps four weeks wasn't time enough to heal after all. Fine, he muttered under his breath as he got up slowly from his desk, I can deal with that too.

"Deal with what, buddy?" a voice asked him from the doorway of his office.

Instantly recognising the voice, Harm cursed his slip in concentration and pinned a smile on his face. "These case files," he answered vaguely, waving at the files on his desk as he turned to face Sturgis.

His head tilted to one side, Sturgis stared back at him, his brown eyes questioning. Unable to meet his gaze, Harm looked away, expecting his friend to call his bluff. But suddenly, unexpectedly, Sturgis smiled.

"Talking to yourself if the first sign of madness," he pointed out as he wandered over to sit on the edge of Harm's desk.

"What's the second?" Harm replied as he struggled to get his mind into the conversation.

"Catapulting yourself off an aircraft carrier in a hunk of steel."

"I thought it was trapping yourself in a tin can at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Uh-uh." Sturgis shook his head. "Only sane people do that."

"Counts you out then."

Deliberately ignoring the jibe, Sturgis reached over to grab the neatly stacked files and wave them under his friend's nose. "Left you with the easy cases," the ex-submariner explained, deftly turning the conversation back to where they'd started off.

His mind finding it difficult to keep up with the change of subject, Harm settled on a simple reply. "Thanks."

To his surprise, Sturgis accepted that too, nodding as he asked his next question. "How's the shoulder?"

"Fine." Lifting his left arm he backed up his claim with a sweeping windmill manoeuvre. Hours of painstaking practice paid off as Sturgis nodded at that too.

"Good. Well, better get going. Admiral's briefing is in two hours and I'm way behind," he added as he headed for the door.

"Been shorthanded, huh?" Harm heard himself asking, guilt ripping the obvious statement from his lips before he could grab it back. Sturgis stopped, then turned and Harm felt his heart sink. The quizzical expression was back in his friend's eyes and this time he knew he wasn't going to give up so easily.

"It wasn't your fault, buddy," Sturgis said, the simple statement awash with invisible undercurrents. "You know that, don't you?"

Did he, Harm wondered as he reached for his chair, all his hard won energy leaving him in a rush as Sturgis pierced his armour with one carefully aimed question. His friend knew him too well. And as a friend he deserved nothing less than the truth.

"I know it wasn't my fault," Harm lied, looking away as Sturgis' expression darkened, his lips pursing together in a tight line. "But that doesn't mean I don't feel responsible."