Hello everyone! Thank you for reading and reviewing the previous parts, it means a lot :) Onto the story:


"You live here," Harm repeated incredulously.

"Yes. I have been living here for the past month. See, got my own set of keys and everything," Webb smiled. It was not a pretty smile.

Harm watched in disbelief which then swiftly turned to anger as Webb casually closed the door behind him, crossed the living room and disappeared into Mac's bedroom. In three quick steps, he followed the spook, only now noticing a bunch of flowing summer dresses hanging over Webb's left arm. He knew those dresses. Mac did not wear them often, but from time to time, when an occasion allowed it, she would slip one on and make him wonder over how long and perfect her legs really were. But now Mac was nowhere to be found and the obnoxious spy boy threw open her closet and started hanging the garments.

"What the hell, Webb?" Harm said, increasingly confused, increasingly angry. "What are you doing with Mac's clothes?"

"Just brought them back from the cleaner's," Webb answered, obviously unperturbed.

"Wait. You took all of her clothes and ... had it washed?" Harm shook his head. The whole situation was getting so bizarre he was not sure if he was not imagining things anymore. Maybe it was jet lag. After all, he had only stepped out of the plane forty minutes ago.

"I did," Webb confirmed, gently running his hand over the hem of the now hung blue dress with polka dots. The gesture felt so intimate that Harm felt like ripping his arm off.

"Why would you do that?"

Only now the spy turned to face Harm and took him in, his demeanour less nonchalant. The wave of pure hate hit Harm square into the chest. He got a feeling he knew nothing about this man. The Webb he once knew, the one whom he considered a friend, an annoying, aggravating but still loyal friend, seemed to have gone. For a second Harm had to wonder if it was somebody else wearing Webb's face as a mask, very much like Clark Palmer wore his own. But he had also known Clayton Webb for far too long and the body language, the voice modulation and the whole package was simply undeniably just Clayton Webb.

"Why?" he repeated Harm's question. "I'll tell you why. Because I don't want the woman I love reek like you, wear the clothes you have touched. threw away some stuff, too, since I figured it was yours. Go Navy shirts and giant hoodies. She doesn't need any of your old shit. I don't want her skin rubbing against anything you or any other loser have ever tainted with your grabby hands. She will only know me from now on. Only my touch. Understand?"

"Have you gone completely crazy?" Harm uttered in astonishment. Frankly, he had no idea what else to say.

"Get out, Rabb. And don't come here again. I have spent too much time cleaning everything and now I will have to do it again just because you invited yourself over."

It was then that Harm finally understood why the flat was so immaculate. That was not Mac's style. The current sterility of it was all Webb. It also meant there would be no clue to find Mac here. Unless...

"Where is she, Webb?"

"None of your business."

"WHERE IS SHE?!"

At that Webb suddenly flung the rest of the dresses on the floor and before Harm realized what was happening he reached behind and drew a gun, pointing it straight at Harm.

"I should be asking you that you bastard!" he shouted. His eyes were clouded and sweat suddenly appeared on his brow. The hand holding the gun was shaking slightly. Something was very wrong with the man, Harm realized. Webb was acting ... psychotic.

"Webb, you need to calm down," he said, trying to reign in his own frustration and growing desire to beat the man to a pulp. "You are obviously delusional. First of all, you don't live here, you are not dating Mac anymore and..."

"I AM!" came another shout. The gun was still pointed at Harm's chest, shaking more visibly now. "I am more than dating her, Rabb. I love her. Don't believe me? Ask the landlord! She took me in, she wanted me here. Never did that for you now, did she? There is so much you don't know, you arrogant asshole. But that's just it, isn't it," Webb hissed, more sweat pouring down his face. He made a step forward, the hatred in his eyes burning almost physically. "You ruined all her previous relationships because she wouldn't have you. You don't know shit about Sarah. You don't know how it feels to kiss her until she cannot breathe. You don't know how smooth and soft she feels. Her shoulders, her breasts, her tight little ass..."

"You need to shut up right now," Harm warned the erratic man in front of him, but Webb was not even hearing him, lost in his rage as well as fantasies he had conjured.

"You have no idea how she likes to do it. Well, let me tell you that you will never know. Never know that sound she makes when you plunge into her all at once. How she is so silky and hot down there..."

There was a trickle of saliva coming out of the corner of Webb's mouth. He was having trouble catching his breath. It was at that moment that Harm simply turned around and walked out. He could still hear Webb shouting obscene details, describing his sexual encounters with Mac. He quickened his steps. It was either leave or kill the guy. And he needed to be not in jail to find Mac. Finding the spy in her place, which no longer felt like her place, had left him shaken. Finally outside of the building again, Harm took a deep, cleansing breath and closed his eyes, putting together everything in his mind.

Mac was not at her place. Webb did not know where she is and his cleaning frenzy meant there would be no clues on where she might have gone. Officially she was still on medical leave. And... and that was it. He was back in D.C. but not any closer to finding her. The last possible clue of where to find her was to talk to Cresswell. Surely he, the one who accompanied her to the hospital, who ordered her leave and was adamant to protect Mac's privacy would have at least some answers. If he was willing to divulge them to Harm was doubtful though.

He checked his watch. 19:06. Cresswell would already have left office. And Harm had a feeling this was not something he could do over the phone. He sighed. He knew he would have trouble sleeping. It had become a pattern ever since Meg waltzed into his office on the Henry and told him she had replaced Mac.


He drove home, unpacked his seabag, took a shower. The encounter with Webb had unsettled him more than he would care to admit. It was not just the fact that the spook claimed Mac had taken him back. The whole thing with cleansing the apartment as if it had been haunted sent the alarm bells ringing in his ears. He was no stranger to jealousy, definitely not the soul-eating, anger-fueling, awful-behaviour-inducing kind of jealousy, but this was plain unhinged. And the whole thing with the gun, the shouting, the sweating, heavy breathing... Webb was not OK. Seriously not OK. His vulgar tirade made it difficult for Harm to find much sympathy though. Nobody was allowed to talk that way about women. About Mac.

Wide awake in the middle of the night, desperate to find some way to relax a bit and think calmly, he finally reached for his guitar. Twenty minutes later his phone rang. Harm frowned and continued strumming the instrument for exactly five more rings. Who could be calling him at ... he looked at his watch ... 01:38? After the seventh ring, he finally reached out and picked up the phone.

"Hello?" he said warily.

"Harm?"

The word was a shaky, silent whisper but it made his heart stop for a second. His other hand clutched the guitar so tightly the strings nearly broke the skin on his fingers.

"Harm?" the voice asked again, slightly louder, but even more fragile.

He closed his eyes and let out a breath he had been holding, the heady sense of utter relief filling his chest before he asked, just to know he was not dreaming: "Mac?"

"Yes."

Thank you, God! Thank you! Thank you! he repeated in his head.

"Mac, where are you?"

She was not answering. Why was she not answering?!

"Mac?" he prompted her again. Was that a sob he just heard?

"I am sorry."

He was puzzled.

"What for?"

"For everything," she breathed out so silently he had to strain to even hear her.

"Hey, it's OK," he said, not really sure what else to offer. "Mac, where are you?" he repeated his original question. No answer. "Please, I am really worried here, Marine," he continued, suddenly scared she would just hang up on him. "Little AJ wants us to dig ourselves a foxhole in Bud and Harriet's backyard next week and I cannot really do that without you. Digging in grass and mud is, after all, your idea of fun, not mine," he tried to joke. Why was she silent? She called him, right?

"Harm?"

"Still here, honey," he answered, the endearment coming from his lips without thought or regret.

"Could you just... talk to me for a minute?"

"Isn't it what we are doing?" he let out a hollow, painful laugh. Broken. She sounded so broken and his relief was now mixed with bitter ache.

"I just want to listen to your voice," she said, pleading. "I don't care if you read me a case file or your shopping list. I just ... can you talk to me?"

"Whatever you want, sweetheart," he said and closed his eyes, not able to stop the tears that were now running down his face. The fear he had experienced, the unsettling meeting with Webb and now her pained voice, the stress of it all had found its relief, even if only for tonight. He was suddenly so tired it took him a while to settle on a topic.

"Uhm... you know how Bud told us he always liked to play that little game when on the plane? The one where you secretly watch other passengers and try to guess where they are from and where they are going and why? I actually tried doing that a few times when I was on the Henry this time. I mean I knew why they were there and often I also knew their names and such ... but it was fun to imagine what led them to join the Navy, who was waiting for them at home, what their aspiration could be..."

He spent about fifteen minutes talking, making long pauses from time to time, hoping for Mac to chime in, but she never did. She was so silent he could be talking to himself for all he knew.

"Thank you," she said silently once it was clear he was finished and out of imaginary stories about the carrier crew.

"Mac, no, wait, please..." he mumbled out but that was all he could manage before he heard the soft "click" and the line went dead.

He fell asleep on the sofa, uncomfortable, exhausted and emotionally drained.

In the small run-down motel beyond the city, so did she, only hurting more.