A/N: Wow, not too shabby for a story that nearly everyone's already read. More reviews than I expected. Well, as promised, here's the next chapter.

Note: This chapter starts off in Mac's POV. Actually, it starts off in Mac's diary. And yeah, it's not humor yet, but I swear it will get there. I told you, the first few chapters are actually kind of depressing.

Note 2: This version of chapter 2 has differed from the original.

Bury the Hatchet

Mac's Diary

July 14 –

Today has to be the most brutal day I've ever faced. I'm serious, Diary (does anyone except all the eight year old girls out there actually address their journals as 'Diary' any more?). Now, you must understand, Diary, I have never been one to buy into that whole conventional white-picket-fence lemon-meringue pie-maker idealism but as another year is slapped onto my age I've GOT to reconsider my take on life. Yes, that's right diary. I have officially turned 38. Thirty-eight. As in three decades with a slapped on eight years. Two years away from forty (mid-life-crisis-age) thirty eight.

And it depresses the hell out of me. To celebrate we went out to the Green Dragon bar of at the corner of Sutton and James. It's not exactly quiet – I'm of the experienced opinion that no bar really is – but it's sort of homey. Like a bunch of people can get together after work and have a grand old time and no one's stopping you. In other words, it's the San Diego version of McMurphy's. God, I miss that place.

Bud and Harriet and the kids also came down to see me. AJ's so tall. Seriously, it's unbelievable. For seven he's got a lot of height. And you know what he wants to be when he grows up? Honestly, it's the sweetest thing. A FIGURE SKATER. No joke, I heard Bud and Harriet arguing over it at dinner. Harriet doesn't believe Bud should discourage little AJ from his dreams. And Bud – being a (though very sweet) male – is rather astonished that Harriet IS encouraging it.

Yeah, it was great to see them again, but they got me thinking – the kids, I mean. Oh hell, Bud and Harriet probably added a lot of thought to my overworking brain too. The Roberts have got this wonderful life – good jobs, four kids, nice home. God, what chance do I have of that now? I'm THIRTY-EIGHT.

Besides, I ruined my chance. My one actual shot . . . and no, I'm not talking about Mic. It would have been called a marriage; it may have even looked like a marriage. But it wouldn't have felt like one and it certainly wouldn't have been one. No, Diary, you know who I'm talking about. You-know-who, He-who-must-not-be-named. A.K.A. Squid, Flyboy, Stickboy . . . Harm.

But it wouldn't have worked. Really, it wouldn't have. This past year is proof. Sure, it began easy enough. The informal but at the same time emotional emails updating each other on what we did that day. The frequent phone calls made just to hear the sound of each other's voices. The casual admission that the new level our careers had taken were definitely more pressuring. Harm had been very comforting to talk to every time I got fed up with Vukovic (God, help me, the General stuck me with him. I swear Harm must have been laughing all through the eight hour flight to London).

And then slowly, very slowly, the every day emails became every two days, every three days, once a week . . . once a month. It was just easier. It had been a simultaneous silent agreement between the two of us. Every time I read one of his emails, every time I heard his voice over the phone, a party of my heart soared out to him. It didn't matter that he was seas away, on a whole other continent. Harm was Harm. And as he had once told me, continents don't change who we are. God, how friggin smart he is.

San Diego was like starting with a clean slate. I was in a different position, with all new coworkers (save Vukovic, who I really could have done without) a whole new city, practically a whole new life. But Harm was the last connection. The small string left to unravel. The lifeline. And it was just too painful to cling any longer. I let go . . .

Harm's Journal

July 14 –

Today's Mac's birthday. I hate myself.

God, all I've done since I've gotten home from work was drink warm Coke (yes, my fridge is STILL missing in action) and flipped through my old photo book (you never TRULY realize what a deep impact someone made on your life till you see at least a hundred pictures in a row of them in what's supposed to be your just-looking-for-a-hobby scrapbook.)

I've got a picture of us dancing together at the Surface Warfare ball. I've got this great picture of Mac and Jingo covered in mud in the Roberts backyard (oh, did I give Mac a playful push inthe mud . . ? Gee, that happens to slip my mind). And then the picture right next to it shows Mac's creative revenge (Jingo's tackling me because Mac poured meat sauce down the front of my t-shirt – which I gave up trying to recover from the massive stain). But as I flipped to the last page, my heart just broke. The very last picture was one of Mac on her last birthday. I've got my arm around her and she's got this humongous white blob of icing on her lips from her birthday cake and from the look in my eyes that I'm giving her in the picture, I'd like nothing more than to just lick it right off.

All day at the office I just sat in front of my computer slapping at the keys trying to find an e-card for her before finally giving up. We haven't talked in months, anyway. She's probably forgotten me. Either that or she probably won't care. No, scratch that. She probably hasn't forgotten me – Mac's got a killer memory. But she definitely won't care.

Besides, she's moved on. I mean, she has to have. I, the King of Stuck in the Past, have now got Jean. And I mean, she's great. She's fun, she's entertaining – but that's all. I know what I'm doing, I'm perfectly aware of it. I'm ambushing my own relationship. I'm stalling. No, scratch that. I'm running.

I don't want to be alone.

She's gone. Mac, I mean. I let her go. I watched her slip away. Like water in my hands she trickled through my fingers – cool, clear, like a long drink after a walk through the dessert. Or no – like a gasp of fresh air in a breathless night. I've never been one for words – but I'd told her.

Almost.

I mean, I proposed. That should have said enough. You propose to someone you love. Had I ever proposed to any of my exs (or is it exes)? The proposition in and of itself should have said something. But what if Mac hadn't interpreted it that way? What if she'd thought it an easy out?

But marriage isn't an easy out. Not by any means. But it would have ensured the fact that Mac would be my future. I mean – she's already my past, and . . . dare I say present? I have Jean. Jean is my girlfriend. And I like Jean a lot. But I have never felt anything as powerfully as what I do for Sarah Mackenzie.

Dare I bury the hatchet? A part of my mind knows it's the only way to move on. But there's only one thing stopping me. There only has ever been one thing stopping me. And it's Mac. Plain and simple. If this was anyone else. And I mean it, ANYONE else, I could do it.

But she's forgotten me. I know she has. I'm just another guy who proposed to her. And lord, she didn't even say YES to me. I'm as good as a faded picture in an old album. Opened once and a while just for a little dusting.

Just bury the hatchet, Rabb. Bury the hatchet. I'm in a new city. I have a new girlfriend. I have a nice place to live (where in no place of the apartment building has ANYONE been murdered) and a comfortable life. That's right – just bury the hatchet.

0854

Colonel Mackenzie's Office

San Diego

"Ma'am?"

I look up from overtop of my vertically magnificent stack of paperwork to see Tiner wheeling in a TV screen. "Yes, Tiner?"

"The General has issued a video conference with you," Tiner seems rather perturbed by the lack of warning he got. Having had personal experience with Tiner's rather . . . interesting technological skills, he and I both have plenty of reason to worry. I get up from my desk and walk to the screen, briefly helping him to plug in wires (that's all I'm good for anyway when it comes to cables and stuff). In a mere minute the screen is featuring a rather stern image of the General.

"Colonel Mackenzie?" from the aggravated note in his tone I take it he can't see me. It takes Tiner and I five minutes to find the correct wire that hooks the camera up to the rest of the equipment. And by that time we've got a very pissed General on our hands.

"Finished, are you?" he asked sarcastically.

I nodded and seated myself in front of the camera. "What is it that you wanted to talk to me about, sir?"

The General jumps right to it. "The conference."

A long pause on my end. "The conference . . . sir?"

I receive a stern look through the screen. "The JAG conference, annual . . ." My memory clicks in and I nod. I can already tell he's exasperated with me. "We've set a date and location."

"That's good, sir," I reply affirmatively. Honestly, I don't know why he couldn't just have told me this over the phone, for Christ's sake.

He stares at me, his eyes willing and powerful. Suddenly, I'm put off balance. The General almost looks . . . caring. I feel nervous. "The last week of July."

I nod only mildly surprised. Usually the conference takes place around August. "Where, sir?"

And his eyes are on me again, x-raying me, searching for thought. His exterior remains strong, however. Radiating power. He opens his mouth, I can see the syllables forming upon his lips. My brain freezes. My heart stops. No, it can't be. It just can't . . . And then everything comes crashing down.

"London."

1654

Captain Rabb's Office

London, England

"Here, sir?" I sit on the edge of my desk, my body tense and mortified. I try to read the General's expression through the camera but it's next to futile. He owns nothing but the extreme professionalism that most COs do.

"That is what I said, Captain." The General's eyes shift to mine, almost intensely. "Two weeks time."

I just sit their stiff, unmoving. Somewhere in my brain there must be some registered thought. Where it is, I wouldn't know. "Two weeks time," I repeat dumbly.

"In London," the General says again. Now he's just treating me like an idiot.

"Yes, sir," I replied stiffly.

I can feel the General's gaze follow me as I shift uneasily on top of my desk. Can he read my thoughts? No, he can't . . . it's impossible. Or so I keep telling myself. "And . . . everyone will be there?"

"Selected members," the General went on, his eyes never leaving me. "From our quarters there will be Commanders Roberts and Turner, Lieutenant Vukovic, Colonel Mackenzie . . ." the list goes on but my brain momentarily pauses while my heart flips within my chest. Mac.

The General must have noted the rather spaced out look I wore for he sighed heavily, adjusting in his seat all the way back in Virginia. "Take care, will you, Commander?"

"Yes, sir," I replied passively. I can't help it. The palms of my hands are all sweaty. "See you soon."

The screen blackens as the conference ends.

Bury the hatchet. Yeah . . . right.

A/N: Review if you feel like it. I appreciate reviews.