Stranded for Christmas

Summary: A freak snowstorm strands Harm and Mac together. (This would replace 'The 4% Solution' in the JAG timeline.)

Notes: This is my entry for the "I'd Like You For Christmas" challenge and inspired by the song "I'd Like You For Christmas".

Part Two

Christmas Eve, 2004

I remember a time when I wanted Harm in my apartment. He'd come over to work on a case and make himself at home. We'd have dinner together and work for a little while, then we'd move to the couch, and we'd talk. It's been years since our relationship was easy, but things were good for one brief moment in time - that time between Mic and Paraguay. Really good. Every night together, it felt like we were on the verge of something more. It was never any big moment or meaningful conversation, but it was little things & casual touches that made me see how easy a life with him could be.

But that time has passed. And now Harm is in my apartment, and it's as uncomfortable and uneasy as it was at the very beginning of our partnership.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he says, setting down his wallet and keys. "I didn't even reach the stoplight before I swerved to avoid hitting a stranded car and got stuck."

I wince and am instantly wracked with guilt. It's all my fault - if he hadn't brought me home, he wouldn't be stranded here right now. He'd be home, getting ready for an evening with Bud & Harriet. Or maybe Alicia. Maybe they're more serious than I imagined, and maybe he was planning to take her to the wall tonight.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "If you hadn't helped me, this wouldn't have happened."

He frowns and studies me as if I've begun speaking Farsi. "I'm glad I was able to help you, Mac. I'm so relieved I drove by when I did."

God, he's a good man. I try to smile, but the way he's looking at me makes me uncomfortable, so I force myself to look away. "Want some coffee? I just made a pot." I hurry into the kitchen and busy myself with cups and creamer, but I can still feel his gaze on me.

"Sure," he says, joining me in the kitchen.

I hear him pull out a chair, and then he makes a 'hmm' noise. I turn to face him and pass him a cup of coffee. "What?"

"I didn't say anything." He takes a sip and winces, and for some reason, that makes me relax a tiny bit. I guess it's nice to know that some things haven't changed. He eventually swallows, and I wordlessly pass him a carton of cream.

"You made a noise," I say. "A hmm-ing noise."

"Oh, that." He sips his coffee and then adds another splash of cream. "I haven't been in here for a while. You've painted."

I look around my kitchen and take in the pale gray walls. "I did," I say. "A few weeks ago."

"It looks nice."

"Thanks." And then we both fall silent, and knowing that he and I have run out of things to talk about hurts more than anything else. I push my coffee away and reach for the cordless phone. "Have you called roadside assistance yet?"

He shakes his head. "No. I was going to before, but I realized my cell phone is still at the office." He looks at me, and his fingers tap against my tabletop. "That's why I came back," he says. "I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise."

I quickly spin around and grab the phone, hoping he doesn't notice that I'm on the verge of tears. His being here is uncomfortable, but knowing he's only here because he had no other way to get help fucking hurts. I take a few deep breaths and then turn back around and extend him the phone. "Here you go," I say quickly, trying to sound nonchalant, but instead, I sound like I'm attempting to be cheerful. "You can use mine."

He stands but makes no move to take the phone. "Mac," he starts but stops when I push the phone at him. He sighs and takes it.

I turn away from him and try not to listen as he dials information and then asks to be connected to a tow service. But before he can ask for service in a specific city, the lights go out, and the apartment is plunged into darkness.

"Damn."

We both say the single word in unison, and I can't help but smile.

"Power's out," he says.

"I can see that," I respond. I slide along the countertop to the drawer under the microwave and feel around inside for the small flashlight I keep. I switch it on and wince at the pathetic amount of light it emits.

Harm spins around in a small circle and returns his attention to me. "Still have candles all over the place?"

I light a candle, and then we travel through the apartment by candlelight and the beam of the flashlight lighting every candle I own. We bring the ones from my bedroom and most of the candles from the bathroom into the living room, and soon the room is decently lit and undeniably beautiful.

"It's pretty," Harm says softly.

I swallow and nod. "Yeah," I say, kneeling in front of the fireplace. "I'll start a fire."

"I can do that," he offers.

"It's fine," I insist. "I light one every night; I just hadn't been home long enough tonight." I look up at him and gesture to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable."

He shrugs out of his uniform coat, loosens his tie, and then he frowns as he looks down at his crisp shirt and pants that I know are uncomfortable.

"I might have something you can change into."

He makes a face, and his eyes turn cool. I don't think any of Webb's clothes will fit."

I feel my face heat and grab the flashlight. "I'll be right back," I say before he can push any other buttons, intentionally or unintentionally.

"Mac-"

I shake my head and continue to my bedroom. "Finish the fire," I say. "I'll be right back." I shut my bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a moment. Why did he have to mention Webb? Was all of this not uncomfortable enough already? I take a breath, step into my closet and dig around in a few of the paper shopping bags on the top shelf. I finally find what I'm looking for in the third one and pull out a pair of navy-blue sweatpants and an old white t-shirt. I shove the rest of the bags back onto the shelf and return to the living room. He's standing in front of the fire he's started, and while I want to stand here and watch him, I know that's foolish, and instead, I clear my throat and hold the clothes out when he turns to me.

"They're yours," I say when he hesitantly reaches for them. He frowns as he studies the pants, and I shrug lightly. "From Paraguay. Somehow, they ended up in my suitcase." It had taken me a while to unpack from that trip, and in the end, I never wanted to see most of those clothes again. I threw out the lingerie, washed and dried the clothes, and planned on taking them to Goodwill, but for whatever reason never got around to it.

"Oh," he says, and he tentatively takes the clothes. "Thanks. I guess I'll go change."

I nod and look away as he disappears to the half-bathroom. Interestingly, I was with both Mic and Clay for a long time, but the only men's clothes in my apartment belong to Harm. He's back quickly, sets his folded uniform pieces on a kitchen chair, and then settles on my sofa next to me.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For bringing up Webb."

I shrug. "It's fine," I say, even though it isn't fine. Not at all. I hate everything that happened in Paraguay, but most of all, I hate that I spent months of my life in a relationship with someone like him. And I hate that it felt like Harm was pushing me toward him. I curl my legs up beneath me and lean away from him, and we settle into an uneasy silence. Things haven't been easy between us for a very long time, but I think this moment might be the worst, and I feel like I'm trapped in a candlelit hell.

"Are we not going to talk at all tonight?"

I flinch at his tone and look toward him. "You're not talking either, Harm. And I don't have anything to talk about." He sighs loudly, and my jaw clenches. "Okay, fine. It's been a long time since you confided in me; I'm sure you've got plenty to talk about. Should we start with Singer's pregnancy?"

"Mac," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that almost sounds like a warning.

"Or maybe you finally want to tell me why you resigned from your commission and came to Paraguay."

"You don't want to talk about Paraguay," he says. He leans closer to me, and I instinctively lean back. "Because if we talk about Paraguay, you have to tell me why you told me 'never'. And how you ended up… dating… Clayton Webb for over a year."

His words come across as a dare, and that's how I decide to take them. "I dated Webb for a year because I didn't have any better options."

"Really," he asks, his voice cold and hard. "No better options? That's fucked up, Mac."

I know he thinks he's a better option. And he would have been. If he had ever told me he wanted me. "You weren't an option," I say.

"I gave up my commission to find you," he says. "If that doesn't make me an option, what does it make me?"

I shrug and bite my lip. "A guy with a hero complex?" He frowns, and I take a breath and lean in. "I asked you, Harm. I asked you point blank why you resigned your commission and came to save me. And do you remember what you said?" He opens his mouth, but I shake my head. "You told me, 'You know why'." Which, in case you've forgotten, is almost exactly what you said to me the night Mic left."

"Mac," he tries to speak, but I keep going.

"And in case you forgot, you also gave me vague, bullshit answers to my question on that goddamned ferry and the Admiral's front porch. That's about four years of me asking you to tell me how you feel and you sidestepping the question. So, when I asked you why you gave up the Navy and flew thousands of miles to save me, and you gave me yet another vague, bullshit answer, you'll have to forgive me for finally having had enough." I take a deep breath and can feel the thickening in my throat, which means I'm about to cry. "That's why I told you 'never'. That's why I finally gave up on you and on us and on everything I wanted us to have."

My voice breaks on the last word, and I'd rather set my hand on fire than let him see me cry, so I stand up and move to the kitchen. I turn on the faucet and fill a glass with water. God, why does he have to be here? Christmas is hard enough without him being here, pulling up all the pain and the hurt from the past two years. I turn off the faucet and gulp down the water, hoping to steady my emotions.

"I'm sorry."

His voice startles me, and my hand tightens around the glass. It shatters in my hand, and the remnants fall into the sink. "Ouch," I hiss, and before I can even reach for something to mop up the blood, I feel him behind me. He reaches for my hand, and I pull away. "I'm fine," I say.

He ignores me and reaches for my hand. I don't pull back this time, and he holds my hand closer to the candle on the counter. He turns it in the flickering light and then lets go to grab a few paper towels. He dampens them, then picks my hand back up and dabs at the cuts. "It doesn't look like there's glass in the wounds," he says. His gaze remains focused on my palm, and his touch is gentle. "Some of these are pretty deep. Where's your first-aid kit?"

"Under the sink," I manage.

He closes my fingers around the damp paper towel. "Hold that," he says. I nod, and he goes to retrieve the first-aid kit. He digs around until he pulls out some gauze squares, a roll of gauze, and an individually wrapped antiseptic wipe. I open my hand and hold my breath as he wipes away the blood with the paper towel, and then I hiss when he rips open the wipe and dabs at the cuts.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

I shrug. "I'm the one who broke the glass."

He rolls his eyes, places the squares over the cuts, and then starts wrapping the gauze around my hand. "I startled you," he says, "but you know I mean more than just the glass."

I feel the need to run, but I'm trapped between him and the counter. He's watching me, and my heart begins to beat faster. "Harm," I start, but he shakes his head.

"No, Mac. It's my turn." He finishes bandaging my hand but doesn't let go. His thumb moves over my wrist, his gaze is calm and steady, and I'm suddenly afraid of what he's going to say.

End Part Two