WARNING: Expressive language once again. Adult situations.


Her internal clock was not working. Minutes and seconds and hours all felt the same. She had no idea whether it was day or night. In a way, time stood still. In a way, time fled away from her completely. She wandered between sleep and wakefulness, never truly experiencing either. She dreamed she was carried gently by the ocean waves. She woke up to realize she was lying in the middle of Harm's bed, wrapped in two blankets, surrounded by pillows as if she were a tiny bird in a nest. His scent was all around her and it lulled her back to sleep soon, or rather into her version of sleep. Light and alerted. It was better than no sleep she supposed. And she was terrified of the true deep sleep anyway. The dreams that came to her then, the nightmares, had the power to drive her insane.

But she was here now, she reminded herself and tightened her grip on one of the pillows, the one he had been using during the night. It smelled like him. And he was near. She listened carefully during one of her more conscious moments and caught rustling of paper. He was reading or writing, possibly preparing for the next case. Later she heard him make tea or coffee. Four times she knew he was just standing over her, watching. He kissed her forehead twice, her shoulder thrice, before retreating again. He was there, with her.

And he loved her.

She sighed and stopped thinking about anything else for the moment. She felt peaceful.

She fell asleep for real and the dreams came with vengeance.


Sarah Mackenzie could hardly complain about being bullied at high school. She was never ambushed by a bunch of other students in an empty hallway or behind the gym, she was never left threatening notes, nobody was stealing from her, nobody vandalized her locker, nobody complained to the teachers about her. The truth was Sarah Mackenzie was such a complete non-entity nobody in the school cared enough to waste energy on targeting her. She was simply not noticed. Plain clothes, few words, always sitting in some half-forgotten corner of a class. She was just weird, everybody agreed. But she was weird in a way which made her a bit scary. There seemed to be some bad voodoo or karma about her. Best to leave her alone. She was all but forgotten by the general agreement. That was, after all, what she wanted as well.

She had a good head, her teachers would tell her in the rare instances they remembered she was among their pupils. She did not need to study to have good grades, she found out. She grasped maths and physics easily since the logic of it was so simple. She had no trouble remembering what she heard or read even just one time. Above all else, she loved history then. She could just plunge herself into it, as if into the most fascinating story. In learning about struggles and losses and wins of others, she could forget anything for a while. Her drunken father. Her bruised mother. The shame of it all.

All in all, she was surviving. Cheryl was still her friend after all, even if the relationship between the two girls never really became too intimate. Cheryl was too wary after her experience from Sarah's fifth birthday. It all fell apart when she turned fifteen. She was allowed to sleep over at Cheryl's. When she came back the next morning her mother was gone. It took her father almost a month to realize Deanne was not coming back. It had taken Sarah just two days to come to the same conclusion. She stole her father's vodka the next week.

She did not even like the taste of alcohol. She certainly did not enjoy the hangovers and vomiting. But the blank stretches of memory were welcome. The longer the better. She did not even remember meeting Christopher Ragle for the first time. She just found him by her side, sitting in an abandoned storehouse, their backs to the wall, drinking from the same bottle. She was laughing. She did not remember why. He was there and it felt good so she just accepted they were friends or whatever. She was no longer heading home after school. Chris was always waiting for her in front of the main entrance, sitting on a motorbike. She would mount it and never look back.

Suddenly the people at school took notice. Considering nobody knew anything about her the stories circulating were sometimes bordering on insane. In any case, the general opinion was soon set: Sarah Mackenzie was a cheap slut and meant to be treated exactly like that. Which meant the girls completely ostracized her and the boys all wanted to try their luck. She did not care. She did not feel any need to defend herself or to explain that unlike many of her classmates she was still a virgin at 16. Or that the guy whose bike she was riding every day would more often than not take her to places like romantic river banks where they could just kiss or luna parks where they stuffed themselves on candyfloss and then tried not to throw up on the Ferriss wheel. Chris did not pressure her into anything. That was what she liked about him the most. The sense of complete freedom and abandonment of sense he offered. He was also completely non-plussed by her outbursts of anger, that were growing in intensity as well as abundance over time. "Cool down, Baby M," he would just laugh and offer her another sip of vodka or beer or whatever they were just sharing.

It was Chris she called when she decided she had had enough. Enough of her father, of his drunken rage, of his bullying. She mastered the pretence, but every word he said to her caused her pain. She longed for her mother. She longed for somebody to care. Chris had said he cared. "You're it for me, Baby M." That was what he said. The memory of that night was nothing but a blur filled with her father's accusatory screams and shouts. She was a whore, she was a slut, she was a tramp. She was nothing. She has heard it all before. And she was sick of it. The moment she slammed the front door behind her for the very last time and headed for Chris on the bike, she knew this was the night she would make good on her father's words.

"Where do ya wanna go?" Christ asked when she slipped behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"I don't care as long as there is a big comfy bed."

"You tired, Baby M?"

"No. I want you to fuck me! All bloody night!"

So he did. He was actually trying to go slow and make her feel good. She knew not every guy would have. She did not like it at all. She felt messy and it hurt. It was awkward and somewhat embarrassing, him breathing so heavily, her moaning like she supposed any girl having sex should be moaning. Did he suspect she was faking it? She told him it was awesome and asked him to do it again. He did. Then he fell asleep with his arms thrown across her abdomen while she stared at the ceiling of his small apartment.

They had sex almost daily after that. Eventually, she could derive some pleasure from it, but wondered if sex would be like vodka. Awful, but very effective in making her lose control and not care. Chris loved having sex with her. She never said no.


She woke up again. She knew she must have been crying in her sleep because her cheeks were wet. She raised her hand to wipe them away. She groaned. She would have never guessed that lifting her own arm would be so difficult. When she finally rubbed away the tears and opened her eyes, Harm was sitting right next to her on the bed.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

She thought about her answer for a moment. She still felt drained. And she was aware of some aches all over. But despite the depressing memories plaguing her sleep, she actually did feel better. Calmer. So to make Harm worry a bit less, she nodded.

"So how about something to eat now," he prodded. It was not really a question.

"Maybe just a little," she said and tried to sit up. Much like lifting her arm before, this proved to be difficult. It was like she had lost control of her body. Or as if somebody had slammed all of her against the wall repeatedly. She found out she had no strength in her arms and had Harm not helped her, she would have simply not been able to do it.

"I don't think I can walk," she whispered dejectedly. There was no point trying to play a hero.

"No, I don't suppose you can just yet, but do you think you can manage to stay upright?" he asked lightly, already sliding his arms under her knees and back. She shrugged and let him lift her up. He carried her into the kitchen and sat her on the sofa. He then produced a warm blanket and wrapped it around her.

"Warm enough, sweetheart?"

"Yes."

"What would you like to eat?"

"I... don't really know."

"So you leave it up to me? What if it's a meatless meatloaf? I made some real progress in that department."

The smile she gave him was a pale shadow of the one he used to see on her face once upon a time, but it was a smile nonetheless. His heart soared. He had not even realized how much he was actually terrified by her unresponsive state and passivity.

"Perhaps something less awful?" she suggested.

He made her pancakes. She ate only one, but it did not change the fact that he felt like the greatest chef in the world at that moment. He quickly washed the dishes and then gingerly took her in his arms, settling her on his lap. He just cradled her for a while, humming a soft melody that just came into his head. He breathing evened out. She was falling asleep again. He carried her back to bed.

"I dreamed about Chris," she whispered all of a sudden, just as he arranged the pillows around her. "He was nice to me, you know," she continued without opening her eyes. "Maybe it was me. Maybe it was me who turned him bad."

Gently he pressed his finger to her lips and kissed a corner of her right eye.

"No, Mac. I think..." he swallowed, trying quickly to find something nice to say about a man whom he never met but despised all the same. "...I think he was simply a person who tried to achieve his dreams in the wrong way. And I know for certain you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. He knew it too."

"Harm?"

"Yes?"

"You said... you said you had reasons why.. why I make your world a wonderful place."

"I do."

"Could you give me just one now? Please?" she pleaded like a child.

"Of course," he said, running his finger through her hair. "Remember Russia, darling? The first time we went there? I could tell you how much you have helped me, how much I admired your guts and your loyalty. But above all, Mac, you have forced me to think about every step twice, you have led me to the right decision and you are the reason why I found what I have always been searching for. A closure without which my life would have become unbearable. You, my love, have saved me from myself."


In another part of town, Meg Hartley just stepped out of her car only to be immediately confronted with an unknown man. She felt chilled to the bones, quickly, thrusting her keys in between her fingers, ready to strike the moment he would reach for her.

"Commander Hartley," the unknown said. "There is no need to be alarmed. I am not here to harm you."

She quickly assessed him. About her height, maybe even a bit smaller. Dark hair, slightly receiving hairline. A nose that must have been broken at least once in his life. Small eyes. Pale face. Unhealthy complexion. He did not look particularly dangerous, but she still did not have a good feeling about him.

"How do you know my name?" she asked sternly and straightened her back. Her keys were safely in her hand.

"I have simply browsed the JAG website updates," he shrugged his shoulders and put his hands into the pockets of his long coat. Meg relaxed a bit.

"If you have anything to discuss relating to my work, I would prefer if you contacted me there. Now, if you would excuse me, I'm off duty."

"I do have things to discuss but they are more of a personal nature."

"Considering I have no idea who you are I seriously doubt that."

"I never said personal in between the two of us."

"Who then?"

"Personal between you and Harmon Rabb. And somewhat more important, if you forgive me, personal between me and Sarah Mackenzie."

Meg frowned and stared. The bad feeling returned just as it was slowly going away.

"Who are you?" she demanded. The man extended his right arm and she reluctantly shook it.

"Clayton Webb. I am an old friend of Harm and Mac."