"Will that be all Ma'am? Ma'am?"
Harriet's gentle prompt got Mac's attention but it was still with a certain amount of reluctance that she dragged her eyes from the file she was reading. It had turned out to be a long day but she was finally starting to get a feel for the case she was working on.
"Sorry, Harriet," she apologised to the Lieutenant standing in her office doorway. "I didn't mean to keep you this late."
Harriet shrugged away her apology with a smile. "No problem, Ma'am. I'll see you tomorrow."
Mac returned the smile with one of her own. Turning her attention back to the file in front of her she was about to start writing notes again when she realised Harriet was still standing in the doorway.
"What's wr..." she started to say, only to trail off as she finally took a closer look at Harriet. The way the young Lieutenant kept nervously glancing in the direction of Harm's office spoke volumes. Following Harriet's glance, Mac let her gaze linger for a moment on the blinds that were partially obscuring the view of the adjacent office.
"I'll check on Commander Rabb," she offered, turning back to meet Harriet's gaze. As the younger woman left, Mac tried not to focus on how relieved Harriet had looked as she'd made her offer.
You're just imaging things, she berated herself as she got up and stretched the kinks out of her shoulders. Things were bound to be a little off kilter for a few days at least. But she had faith that things would get back to normal, they always did. As her stomach rumbled, reminding her just how late the hour was, she left her office and headed for Harm's.
"Time to go home, Flyboy," she announced, not standing on ceremony as she pushed open the door to his office. She faltered on the threshold as a pair of exhausted blue eyes met hers but she blinked the image away, reminding herself that it was only natural he'd be tired.
"Sure, just need to finish -"
"Now," she cut in, adopting her best Marine Colonel voice, softening the command with a smile. She caught her breath as for a second his shoulders tensed, his expressive eyes flashing with impatience and a hint of something else and then the moment was gone.
"Whatever you say Colonel," he retorted, the Flyboy grin that had been noticeable by its absence all day suddenly back in residence.
Finding some reassurance in its reappearance, Mac's step was more confident as she walked into his office and took the seat opposite his. "Any luck with those?" she asked, nodding at the stack of weighty law volumes on his desk.
"Not really." With a sigh he threw down his pen and slumped down in his chair. "I don't know Mac. I feel like I'm missing something..."
"It's only been one day, Harm. The Admiral only gave us the case this morning. You know how it goes -"
"But it's only two weeks until we're due before the judge -"
"And we'll figure it out before then." The Flyboy grin had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared Mac realised. He was tired, she reminded herself. Hell, she was tired too. Neither of them were functioning at their best. Which was why now was not the time to burden him with her concern. Assuming there was a good time of course.
Putting that last self-indulgent thought down to exhaustion, she reached over the desk and firmly closed shut the book on top of the pile. Risking a glance at Harm she discovered he was watching her, his expression shuttered. Unnerved by his chameleon-like mood swings she watched silently as he shifted in his seat then closing his eyes briefly, pushed himself to his feet.
"You're right, Mac," he told her as he slowly walked over to the coat stand. "We'll start on it again tomorrow."
Another mood swing, another U-turn in the conversation. At a loss as to what to say, she followed him as he draped his coat over his arm, picked up his cover and headed for the door.
"See you in the morning," he said, not looking back as he took the shortest route to the exit, weaving his way through the desks in the empty bullpen.
"See you," she echoed quietly, her words barely carrying in the silence. Something deep inside her told her she should go after him but her legs suddenly seemed to be weighed down with shoes of lead.
The sound of the bullpen's glass door swinging shut behind Harm brought her back to the present with a thud. Forcing her legs to move she wandered back to her office and sat back down at her desk, the files lying forgotten as she stared sightlessly out towards the bullpen.
It had been a surprise when the Admiral had assigned her the case that morning. It had been even more of a surprise when he'd assigned Harm as second chair. She'd tried to maintain a calm façade as the assignments were announced but a glance at Bud had confirmed that she wasn't the only one who was puzzled. Harm on the other hand, had taken it all in his stride. At the time she'd just been so ridiculously pleased to have him back - sitting in his normal chair at her left hand side - that she'd ignored what was right in front of her face. Now she could see how unlike Harm his behaviour had been. Or was it unlike Harm? Where her partner was concerned she had a history of digging herself in way too deep. Was that she was doing now? Projecting her feelings of concern onto Harm and imagining things that weren't really there?
Damn. How did she allow herself to get into these situations? Annoyed, she got up again, taking some of her frustration out on the files as she stacked them up neatly. Harm was fine - now. There was no need to worry. It was natural that everyone would be walking on eggshells for a few days; they had all been affected in some way by what had happened to Harm. Harm most of all.
Slamming the last file onto the pile, straightening it up so that all the corners were square, she surveyed her handy work. The centre of her desk was clear, the files on it lined up with military precision. With nothing else to do she could no longer avoid heading home. The thought of her apartment brought with it the lure of a long, hot bath and her knotted shoulder muscles twinged in sympathy at the thought. Relax, she berated herself silently, taking her own advice and inhaling deeply. Harm's a big boy; he can look after himself. If he needs you he knows where to find you.
Right. Of course he would. Assuming he didn't run to La Jolla first.
With an angry jerk of her shoulders she gave up all pretence of calm and reshuffled the files again, splitting them into two piles instead of one. He'd had every right to go to his mother's she reminded herself, the argument rolling through her mind with a worrying amount of familiar ease. Staying alone in his apartment had been out of the question; he would have needed looking after and who would have been around to handle that? Me, a small voice protested from one corner of her mind: me.
She let herself wallow in that thought for a moment but then the Marine in her stepped forward again. The Admiral had needed her; with Bud and Sturgis helping in the initial investigation of the shooting he'd had no one else he could send to Norfolk. And with Harm out of danger there had been no reason for her not to go. It was part of the job she'd signed up to do; it was a duty that she'd embraced with passion and commitment. Harm understood that; no matter what other misunderstandings they'd had in the past she was certain they agreed on that.
Letting out a tired sigh she tugged the front of her olive green jacket straight. Unconsciously she stood taller, the Marine officer's uniform instantly defining who she was, as it always did. Hooking a couple of files from the top of the once again neatly stacked files and sliding them into her briefcase she grabbed her cover and coat and headed for the door. Tomorrow was another day she told herself, brushing Harm's tired expression from her mind as she glanced towards his empty office on her way out. He'd be fine until tomorrow. Whatever was on his mind, she would ask him about it then.
*********
With a grimace, Harm prodded his fork into the vegetable lasagne in front of him. The cheese sauce topping had congealed as it cooled, giving it a glue-like consistency that was now refusing to let go of his fork. Quelling a wave of nausea he gave up on the food and slumped back on the sofa, leaving the cold plate of pasta sitting on the coffee table in front of him.
Vaguely his mind registered that his apartment was a mess but as his eyes drifted closed against his will he couldn't find the energy to care. Even cooking the lasagne had been done more out of habit than a feeling of hunger. If his mother were here she'd have a few things to say to him. It was lucky for him she wasn't he decided as he dragged himself up from the sofa and headed for the sink, the discarded plate of lasagne in one hand. His lack of appetite wouldn't be the only thing she would comment on. She hadn't wanted him to return to Washington in the first place, at least for a few more weeks. It had taken all his powers of persuasion to convince her to let him go. Convincing the doctors had been a piece of cake by comparison.
On automatic pilot he scraped the lasagne into the trash can and put the plate and fork in the dishwasher. For an instant he thought about doing some work on the case that he and Mac had been assigned that morning but his sluggish mind swallowed the thought whole and with a tired shake of his head he let it go. The Admiral had assigned him second chair: that meant the older man had decided to cut him some slack, for the time being at least. Unfortunately he had a good idea why but tonight, just for once, he wasn't going to argue with his superior's decision. It was a shame, he reflected dryily, that the Admiral wasn't there to enjoy the moment.
Not that he was going to make a habit of slacking the guilty voice in the back of his mind goaded him. In reality the last thing the Admiral should be doing was cutting him slack. He, Harm, had failed in his duty. And a man was dead because of it. He should have listened to what Petty Officer Robinson had told him. When he said he was being threatened he should have acted. Maybe the guy hadn't had a sparkling service record but he could have given him the benefit of the doubt. Checking up on Chief Petty Officer Shayler wouldn't have taken a lot of time out of his day; if he had then maybe Robinson would still be alive instead of being pencilled in for a plot in Arlington. Maybe he wouldn't have spent the last two weeks in physio at La Jolla, trying to convince the doctors that one day he would be fit enough to pass the flight physical again.
Maybe. That word again. There was no maybe about it. He'd screwed up; end of story.
Angry with himself he took out his frustration on his body. Forcing one foot in front of the other, he headed for the shower. Undressing he avoided looking in the mirror. He knew what he would see; a body that had lost weight, the light tan he'd picked up in La Jolla failing to completely disguise the pale pallor of his skin. Nor could it hide the damage the bullet had done. The scars on his left shoulder and just above his ribs glowed red. A deeper red today he noted vaguely; a deep, hot, aching red that was gradually invading his body like an advancing army, striking first at his shoulder and now creeping down his side.
He would heal. He always did. More lives than a cat his Mother had said, the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes belying the humour in her voice. Something else to feel guilty about. How many times had she ended up sitting next to his hospital bed? He'd lost count. He suspected that over the years it was more than nine.
At some point he'd have to make it up to her but not right now. Right now he felt like he'd been hit by a truck; it was taking all his strength to stay upright he realised as he got out of the shower. Lying down suddenly seemed like a really good idea.
Taking his own advice he did just that, crawling under the bedspread as soon as he'd towelled himself dry. The sheets felt soothingly cool against his skin but it still took him several minutes to get comfortable. A spare pillow placed under his shoulder solved the problem and with a tired sigh of relief he let his eyes drift closed.
It was too quiet in his apartment he decided a short while later. In Bethesda he hadn't had a moment to himself, at La Jolla his Mother and Frank had always been around, if not in the same room. Now...now there was nothing. Despite the sounds of the city outside, the silence inside his apartment was deafening. And it was driving him nuts.
Damn. Cursing himself he struggled upright, squinting through the midnight darkness at his apartment. This was dumb behaviour even for him. Mac would have a field day at his expense if she were here. Sleepless nights were normally her thing, not his.
Despite himself he found his gaze drifting towards the phone at the side of his bed. One phone call and he could be talking to Mac instead of listening to his guilty conscience. But - as his guilty conscience helpfully chose to remind him at that moment - he hadn't bothered to call Mac back when she'd tried to get in touch with him after the shooting. It was a bit late to be calling in favours, in more ways than one. With another sigh he slumped back down on the bed. Reaching over to switch on the bedside lamp he retrieved the book that had been lying unread on his beside table for the last six months and flicked it open to the first page.
Harriet's gentle prompt got Mac's attention but it was still with a certain amount of reluctance that she dragged her eyes from the file she was reading. It had turned out to be a long day but she was finally starting to get a feel for the case she was working on.
"Sorry, Harriet," she apologised to the Lieutenant standing in her office doorway. "I didn't mean to keep you this late."
Harriet shrugged away her apology with a smile. "No problem, Ma'am. I'll see you tomorrow."
Mac returned the smile with one of her own. Turning her attention back to the file in front of her she was about to start writing notes again when she realised Harriet was still standing in the doorway.
"What's wr..." she started to say, only to trail off as she finally took a closer look at Harriet. The way the young Lieutenant kept nervously glancing in the direction of Harm's office spoke volumes. Following Harriet's glance, Mac let her gaze linger for a moment on the blinds that were partially obscuring the view of the adjacent office.
"I'll check on Commander Rabb," she offered, turning back to meet Harriet's gaze. As the younger woman left, Mac tried not to focus on how relieved Harriet had looked as she'd made her offer.
You're just imaging things, she berated herself as she got up and stretched the kinks out of her shoulders. Things were bound to be a little off kilter for a few days at least. But she had faith that things would get back to normal, they always did. As her stomach rumbled, reminding her just how late the hour was, she left her office and headed for Harm's.
"Time to go home, Flyboy," she announced, not standing on ceremony as she pushed open the door to his office. She faltered on the threshold as a pair of exhausted blue eyes met hers but she blinked the image away, reminding herself that it was only natural he'd be tired.
"Sure, just need to finish -"
"Now," she cut in, adopting her best Marine Colonel voice, softening the command with a smile. She caught her breath as for a second his shoulders tensed, his expressive eyes flashing with impatience and a hint of something else and then the moment was gone.
"Whatever you say Colonel," he retorted, the Flyboy grin that had been noticeable by its absence all day suddenly back in residence.
Finding some reassurance in its reappearance, Mac's step was more confident as she walked into his office and took the seat opposite his. "Any luck with those?" she asked, nodding at the stack of weighty law volumes on his desk.
"Not really." With a sigh he threw down his pen and slumped down in his chair. "I don't know Mac. I feel like I'm missing something..."
"It's only been one day, Harm. The Admiral only gave us the case this morning. You know how it goes -"
"But it's only two weeks until we're due before the judge -"
"And we'll figure it out before then." The Flyboy grin had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared Mac realised. He was tired, she reminded herself. Hell, she was tired too. Neither of them were functioning at their best. Which was why now was not the time to burden him with her concern. Assuming there was a good time of course.
Putting that last self-indulgent thought down to exhaustion, she reached over the desk and firmly closed shut the book on top of the pile. Risking a glance at Harm she discovered he was watching her, his expression shuttered. Unnerved by his chameleon-like mood swings she watched silently as he shifted in his seat then closing his eyes briefly, pushed himself to his feet.
"You're right, Mac," he told her as he slowly walked over to the coat stand. "We'll start on it again tomorrow."
Another mood swing, another U-turn in the conversation. At a loss as to what to say, she followed him as he draped his coat over his arm, picked up his cover and headed for the door.
"See you in the morning," he said, not looking back as he took the shortest route to the exit, weaving his way through the desks in the empty bullpen.
"See you," she echoed quietly, her words barely carrying in the silence. Something deep inside her told her she should go after him but her legs suddenly seemed to be weighed down with shoes of lead.
The sound of the bullpen's glass door swinging shut behind Harm brought her back to the present with a thud. Forcing her legs to move she wandered back to her office and sat back down at her desk, the files lying forgotten as she stared sightlessly out towards the bullpen.
It had been a surprise when the Admiral had assigned her the case that morning. It had been even more of a surprise when he'd assigned Harm as second chair. She'd tried to maintain a calm façade as the assignments were announced but a glance at Bud had confirmed that she wasn't the only one who was puzzled. Harm on the other hand, had taken it all in his stride. At the time she'd just been so ridiculously pleased to have him back - sitting in his normal chair at her left hand side - that she'd ignored what was right in front of her face. Now she could see how unlike Harm his behaviour had been. Or was it unlike Harm? Where her partner was concerned she had a history of digging herself in way too deep. Was that she was doing now? Projecting her feelings of concern onto Harm and imagining things that weren't really there?
Damn. How did she allow herself to get into these situations? Annoyed, she got up again, taking some of her frustration out on the files as she stacked them up neatly. Harm was fine - now. There was no need to worry. It was natural that everyone would be walking on eggshells for a few days; they had all been affected in some way by what had happened to Harm. Harm most of all.
Slamming the last file onto the pile, straightening it up so that all the corners were square, she surveyed her handy work. The centre of her desk was clear, the files on it lined up with military precision. With nothing else to do she could no longer avoid heading home. The thought of her apartment brought with it the lure of a long, hot bath and her knotted shoulder muscles twinged in sympathy at the thought. Relax, she berated herself silently, taking her own advice and inhaling deeply. Harm's a big boy; he can look after himself. If he needs you he knows where to find you.
Right. Of course he would. Assuming he didn't run to La Jolla first.
With an angry jerk of her shoulders she gave up all pretence of calm and reshuffled the files again, splitting them into two piles instead of one. He'd had every right to go to his mother's she reminded herself, the argument rolling through her mind with a worrying amount of familiar ease. Staying alone in his apartment had been out of the question; he would have needed looking after and who would have been around to handle that? Me, a small voice protested from one corner of her mind: me.
She let herself wallow in that thought for a moment but then the Marine in her stepped forward again. The Admiral had needed her; with Bud and Sturgis helping in the initial investigation of the shooting he'd had no one else he could send to Norfolk. And with Harm out of danger there had been no reason for her not to go. It was part of the job she'd signed up to do; it was a duty that she'd embraced with passion and commitment. Harm understood that; no matter what other misunderstandings they'd had in the past she was certain they agreed on that.
Letting out a tired sigh she tugged the front of her olive green jacket straight. Unconsciously she stood taller, the Marine officer's uniform instantly defining who she was, as it always did. Hooking a couple of files from the top of the once again neatly stacked files and sliding them into her briefcase she grabbed her cover and coat and headed for the door. Tomorrow was another day she told herself, brushing Harm's tired expression from her mind as she glanced towards his empty office on her way out. He'd be fine until tomorrow. Whatever was on his mind, she would ask him about it then.
*********
With a grimace, Harm prodded his fork into the vegetable lasagne in front of him. The cheese sauce topping had congealed as it cooled, giving it a glue-like consistency that was now refusing to let go of his fork. Quelling a wave of nausea he gave up on the food and slumped back on the sofa, leaving the cold plate of pasta sitting on the coffee table in front of him.
Vaguely his mind registered that his apartment was a mess but as his eyes drifted closed against his will he couldn't find the energy to care. Even cooking the lasagne had been done more out of habit than a feeling of hunger. If his mother were here she'd have a few things to say to him. It was lucky for him she wasn't he decided as he dragged himself up from the sofa and headed for the sink, the discarded plate of lasagne in one hand. His lack of appetite wouldn't be the only thing she would comment on. She hadn't wanted him to return to Washington in the first place, at least for a few more weeks. It had taken all his powers of persuasion to convince her to let him go. Convincing the doctors had been a piece of cake by comparison.
On automatic pilot he scraped the lasagne into the trash can and put the plate and fork in the dishwasher. For an instant he thought about doing some work on the case that he and Mac had been assigned that morning but his sluggish mind swallowed the thought whole and with a tired shake of his head he let it go. The Admiral had assigned him second chair: that meant the older man had decided to cut him some slack, for the time being at least. Unfortunately he had a good idea why but tonight, just for once, he wasn't going to argue with his superior's decision. It was a shame, he reflected dryily, that the Admiral wasn't there to enjoy the moment.
Not that he was going to make a habit of slacking the guilty voice in the back of his mind goaded him. In reality the last thing the Admiral should be doing was cutting him slack. He, Harm, had failed in his duty. And a man was dead because of it. He should have listened to what Petty Officer Robinson had told him. When he said he was being threatened he should have acted. Maybe the guy hadn't had a sparkling service record but he could have given him the benefit of the doubt. Checking up on Chief Petty Officer Shayler wouldn't have taken a lot of time out of his day; if he had then maybe Robinson would still be alive instead of being pencilled in for a plot in Arlington. Maybe he wouldn't have spent the last two weeks in physio at La Jolla, trying to convince the doctors that one day he would be fit enough to pass the flight physical again.
Maybe. That word again. There was no maybe about it. He'd screwed up; end of story.
Angry with himself he took out his frustration on his body. Forcing one foot in front of the other, he headed for the shower. Undressing he avoided looking in the mirror. He knew what he would see; a body that had lost weight, the light tan he'd picked up in La Jolla failing to completely disguise the pale pallor of his skin. Nor could it hide the damage the bullet had done. The scars on his left shoulder and just above his ribs glowed red. A deeper red today he noted vaguely; a deep, hot, aching red that was gradually invading his body like an advancing army, striking first at his shoulder and now creeping down his side.
He would heal. He always did. More lives than a cat his Mother had said, the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes belying the humour in her voice. Something else to feel guilty about. How many times had she ended up sitting next to his hospital bed? He'd lost count. He suspected that over the years it was more than nine.
At some point he'd have to make it up to her but not right now. Right now he felt like he'd been hit by a truck; it was taking all his strength to stay upright he realised as he got out of the shower. Lying down suddenly seemed like a really good idea.
Taking his own advice he did just that, crawling under the bedspread as soon as he'd towelled himself dry. The sheets felt soothingly cool against his skin but it still took him several minutes to get comfortable. A spare pillow placed under his shoulder solved the problem and with a tired sigh of relief he let his eyes drift closed.
It was too quiet in his apartment he decided a short while later. In Bethesda he hadn't had a moment to himself, at La Jolla his Mother and Frank had always been around, if not in the same room. Now...now there was nothing. Despite the sounds of the city outside, the silence inside his apartment was deafening. And it was driving him nuts.
Damn. Cursing himself he struggled upright, squinting through the midnight darkness at his apartment. This was dumb behaviour even for him. Mac would have a field day at his expense if she were here. Sleepless nights were normally her thing, not his.
Despite himself he found his gaze drifting towards the phone at the side of his bed. One phone call and he could be talking to Mac instead of listening to his guilty conscience. But - as his guilty conscience helpfully chose to remind him at that moment - he hadn't bothered to call Mac back when she'd tried to get in touch with him after the shooting. It was a bit late to be calling in favours, in more ways than one. With another sigh he slumped back down on the bed. Reaching over to switch on the bedside lamp he retrieved the book that had been lying unread on his beside table for the last six months and flicked it open to the first page.
