Safe. She was safe. Harm said so. Harm never lied. At least not to her. Not about important things. Tucked in a cocoon of soft blankets she was curled up in one corner of the sofa, watching him cook. Calmer, even though the little flame of caution kept burning. Her safe place has not been invaded, not yet. She could relax. But it was difficult to just forget the fact that he knew now. And there was no telling what he might or might not do.
"Do you want any of this?" Harm had asked some time ago and when she shook her head he unceremoniously threw all of the clothes into a bag and, promising he would donate them, took them into the car, out of sight. Then followed a phone call to Harriet. Harm apologized profusely for bothering her but begged her to buy something for Mac to wear. Harriet promised she would do so as soon as she could.
Now, with demons chased into the dark corners for a little while longer, Mac was recovering from her near panic-attack and Harm was inwardly cursing himself.
He felt furious. He felt betrayed. He felt so bloody damn stupid. He did not understand. Why? Why would Meg say such horrible things? He was still shocked. As if Mac was some burden pulling him down. With intention. Was that how Meg saw this whole thing? She knew nothing about Mac, so how would she come up with something like that? And Webb. How did Webb fit into the puzzle? He contacted her, Meg said. He obviously manipulated her. But even though he realized that must have been the case, it did little to dampen his anger. He was the one Meg was supposed to be friends with, not fucking Webb. She should have trusted him but chose not to. Why? Why?! And now the spook knew where Mac was. If he could not get a day off work tomorrow, he was damn sure Mac had a loaded weapon with her at all times.
"I believe that carrot had died a long time ago," he suddenly heard Mac say. She materialized beside him and he almost cut his finger in surprise. A quick look told him she was right. In his anger and completely occupied by his own thoughts he had butchered the poor vegetable so much that instead of neat circles it was not ready to be turned into a porridge. He threw away the knife with a silent curse.
"Are you OK?" she asked and put her hand lightly on his broad back.
"I should be asking you that," he returned, looking at her.
"I haven't been for a while," she said sadly. "I am not sure if I ever will be again."
He turned to her fully, taking her hands in his and giving a gentle squeeze.
"Don't say that," he pleaded. "You are the strongest person I know. And I am here for you."
"Maybe you shouldn't be."
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply, even though he knew where this was going.
"Maybe she... Meg... was right. I am dragging you into my problems. You have a life and I just distract you from it..."
Yep. Exactly as he had feared. The words yet again did the damage. He thanked the God Meg was not within his reach at the moment. He had never, ever even thought about hurting a woman, and while he still did not want to hurt her exactly, he feared his own subconscious reaction when he would see her next time.
"Shut up, Mackenzie," he said simply. "I love you, remember? I would rather spend my days helping you out and solving your problems than fly to the Bahamas with anyone else. Even if it was in F-14."
Without a word, she stepped into his embrace and he felt her kiss the hollow of his throat.
The semblance of peace did not last. Could not last. She was still too rattled, he was still too furious. In the middle of the night, he woke up when she sat up in bed, gasping for breath. When he tried to take her in his arms, he noticed her eyes were wide open, but unseeing. The moment he touched her she recoiled from him, when he tried again she fought against him violently. No sound came out of her throat, yet her mouth was open in a silent scream. They both tumbled out of bed. He yelped out when his shoulder hit the unforgiving corner of the night table. She thrashed on the floor for a bit, tangled in sheets. Then a moment of silence, in which she finally took a deep, shaky breath. He crawled next to her, saying her name over and over again not to startle her again. It took a little while to convince her it was really him.
"Harm," she repeated his name like a prayer. "Oh, Harm."
Twenty minutes later they were back in bed, but the lights were on. Neither of them would sleep again that night and they knew it. He would vehemently refuse any accusation that Mac and her plight were weighing him down, or at least would refuse to simply make things easier for himself and letting her deal with everything on her own. But he was tired and the question of what had happened to her grew larger and larger in his mind. this whole thing was killing him.
"What did you dream about, my love?" he asked gently, running his hand in long strokes up and down her back. "Please, tell me. Mac, I am ready to take on any of your nightmares, but you need to let me in."
The old Mac, Mac the Marine, would push him away. She would snap at him or threw a sarcastic comment his way. They would probably end up arguing. The Mac now breathing into the crook of his neck began to speak and soon the nightmare became all too clear to him.
She was in Bosnia. Exactly as it was years ago when she was still just Captain Sarah Mackenzie. She was wearing cammies and a bullet-proof vest. They gave her a weapon, but also an armed escort. She was supposed to visit a bombed village. Take notes. Report back. They were shot at. Two of her escort fell with a bullet to their head. The third dragged her down just in time. They hid in the abandoned house, not trying to shoot back and waste the bullets. Then they were running, running, running. There were trees all around and the sky was purple. She finally shot back. She was by herself. Nobody else to help anymore. Her lungs were burning. Her arm was bleeding. She kept running. It started to rain heavily. She believed she was no longer pursued, but the dread remained. She was lost in the woods. She just kept going, going, going. There was a clearing up ahead. There was a pit in the middle of it. There were bodies. Big and small, young and old. Dead, dead, dead. She put a fist into her mouth and bit hard to stifle a scream. It was almost morning. She was cold. She needed to find her way back. She needed to tell someone what she had found. Was that where the memory ended and the nightmare began? She could not tell while she was sleeping, but it was probably it. Because when she dared to look into the pit one last time, she realized she knew those dead bodies. Their mangled limbs and half-lidded, unseeing eyes. They were men, the men who told her they loved her. The men she hoped to love. There was Chris and there was Eddie. But there were others too. Dalton. John. Mic. And there was Harm. No! she wanted to scream. No! Wake up! You cannot be dead! And though none of the bodies moved as much as a muscle, she could hear them speak: but we are. You killed us. And she just shook her head and wanted to explain so badly but could not. Her foot slipped on the muddy edge of the pit and she was falling. Death, death all around her. Death she caused. Death she was the reason for. She was sinking. She tried desperately to get out of the pit, away from the dead. When she looked up she could see the smirking face of Clayton Webb, standing high above the pit.
Harm did not know what to say. The sheer horror of her recollection stunned him. Interestingly enough he was less aghast at the image of himself being dead and in a pit and more at finding out just what Mac had actually lived through. He knew war. He fought in one. But now he realized that he had seen it only from afar. He lived with the knowledge that he had killed people - the enemy, but his engagement rarely lasted more than a few minutes. The war Mac had seen was the war of non-combatants. He saw the risks and dangers of the fight. She witnessed the tragedy and suffering of ordinary people.
He just held her, not asking anything more. He thought it had been enough for one night. He was therefore surprised when she drew away from him a bit, looked him in the eyes and said: "Harm, I want to tell you... what happened to me. I ... believe you deserve to know. And to be quite honest... I just need to tell someone... because I have been carrying it with me and I am not getting any better. I... want to get better... for you. It's just... I'm terrified that when you finally know, you will not want me anymore." She ended up in a whisper.
He pulled her close again. "There is nothing you can tell me that would make me love you or want you any less," he assured her. On the inside, he was anxiously waiting for her confession as well as dreading it. He had his suspicions and was praying they were unwarranted.
"I don't really know how to start," she admitted after a moment. Her voice was weak.
"Tell me why Webb is in your apartment?" he suggested, trying to ease her into talking.
"That's easy," she said. "I let him in and I let him stay."
"You need to explain."
"He showed up at my door one night. He was completely drunk. That was the only reason why I let him in. I should have called the police. Or anyone. After the stunt he pulled, letting me grieve his death, letting a mass murderer stay at my home, putting both of us in danger yet again, I was done with him. Told him I never wanted to see him again. He kept calling me. I never answered. But now he was drunk and unable to stand so I dragged him to the sofa and left him there. He was still out when I left for work the next morning. When I came back, I expected him to have gone, but he didn't. He was sober but sick as a dog. I should have thrown him out. I shouldn't have cared. Only he kept repeating his life was over if I showed him the door. Harm... I wanted to get rid of him, but he was just so pathetic. Kept apologizing. Kept crying. He terrified me. Told me he needed me in his life more than anything. That he would give up all he had for me. I asked him to leave, repeatedly. And I... I felt too embarrassed to call the police. I didn't want anyone to know about him. I was so ashamed."
"Why didn't you call me?" he asked, somewhat offended. "You know I wouldn't have judged you."
"You were on a carrier, remember?" she reminded him softly. "You were so far away from me... And I was determined not to make the whole thing into a big deal. So naturally soon it just grew into unbearable proportions. Every single day I told him to get out but ended up tending to him because he was too sick or just too agitated. I was getting desperate. I kept working later and later, postponing the time I would have to go home because I knew he would still be there. And I stupidly, still, did not tell anyone. The less time I spent in my home, the more he was changing it to suit him. In the end, I was using the place only as a shower and a bed. Harm, I was in my home and slept with locked doors. Or rather tried to sleep. And then I found out that his odd behaviour was not alcohol. He... he started taking drugs."
"Drugs?"
"Cocaine, to be exact. At least I think it's cocaine. I found out the last time I came home. I was so tired. So so tired. I was depressed, alone and just plain exhausted. I had a migraine that evening. Not a normal one when you just feel pressure and a little pain in your temples. That migraine was debilitating. I got it at work. Had to stop reading, because for some reason my brain went haywire and I could actually only see half of each letter on the page. It as like the whole world lost colour and was in black and white. When I think about it, it is a miracle I did not crash driving home. And when I came there, Webb was still there, starting his tirade about loving me again. I told him to leave again. He brushed it off as usual. But I couldn't take it anymore. I decided I did no longer care if the whole world knew what a weak excuse for a Marine I am. I picked up the phone to call the police."
She fell silent. She was completely still, but Harm was aware of how painfully her fingers were now digging into his own arm. He hated to push her, hated to make her relive whatever it was that happened next. He found himself wishing that was where the story had ended. She called the cops. They arrived. They arrested Webb. But that was not how it had happened. He needed to know and she had come too far to stop now.
He gently ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her temple.
"What happened then, Sarah?"
"I don't know for sure," she said and started to cry. Among the heavy sobbing, shallow breathing and long pauses the picture presented itself though.
A telephone ripped out of her hand.
An ungraceful fall and a rattle of the conference table glass shattering.
Pain. Pain in her back.
The migraine punishingly thrumming in her temples.
She found herself on her belly then. Perhaps the world rolled over then?
More pain.
Knee pressed into her lower back.
"Mine!" screamed into her ear. "All mine!"
Prayer to pass out. Prayer to fight back.
The smell of the carpet was funny.
No strength. Just pain.
Somehow, a pillow under her face.
A sound of fabric ripping.
Cold air on her naked skin.
Hands on her naked skin.
Scream. No sound though. That's right. It was swallowed by the pillow. Pillows do that, you know?
Knee wedged between her legs.
Palm pressing down her neck.
The pillow smelled of honeysuckle. She had bought that scent just a few months ago.
"Mine! Now! Forever!"
Sour breath on her cheek.
Weight of a body on her back.
Pain in her temples.
Pain in her lower back.
Such pain.
Shhh! Nobody can hear anyway.
The disgusting stickiness between her legs when he finished.
The revolting wet kisses all over her spine.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
