Fallout
Part 5
Disclaimer: Don't own'em
A/N: Thanks for all the comments. I love that you guys are enjoying this so much. Makes my day.
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Mac's Apartment
Sunday
1123 Local
"You still need groceries." He commented as he watched her enter the kitchen dressed in sweats, freshly showered. It was all he could think of to say in the few minutes while she'd been in the shower and he'd washed the mugs they had left in the sink this morning. He'd never washed mugs so thoroughly before.
"Yeah." She shrugged tiredly. "I'll go later."
He remembered her 1kg bag of oatmeal and tried to quash his resentment.
"Coffee? Or would you rather something to eat?" He asked instead.
She shook her head. "But help yourself. I'll make myself some green tea. I think I may have something sweet you can have with your coffee, if you like."
"I'll make us both green tea," he offered. He put the water to boil, not thinking about when she might've decided to start buying green tea. He'd never known her to keep any at her place.
She nodded and went to what he called her 'carb cupboard' in search of the sweet stuff she'd mentioned. He knew how cookies usually brightened even her dullest moods.
He was surprised to find her pull out only one box of wheat crackers and one of breadsticks. She definitely needed to go grocery shopping.
He took the bag of green tea out of her cupboard and found it to be a very high end brand of tea leaves, nothing Mac would ever buy for herself. Probably Webb. He knew Webb had expensive tastes in just about everything, including foods. He didn't cook , but he was a gourmet. Oddly epicurean for a CIA agent, Harm had always thought. But he supposed old money could do that to a person. He decided he wasn't in the mood for green tea. He'd have coffee.
He opened her fridge door to pull out milk for his coffee, and found it empty except for some boiled rice, pasta, bread, milk, a container of plain yoghurt and a Tupperware of what looked like home-made chicken soup. He didn't think he'd ever seen her fridge so bare. If she didn't have real food, she always had at least a lot of meat – especially cold cuts – and leftover take-out containers.
Everything in here was bland, plain ... He remembered the oatmeal again. If she was only eating dry pasta or rice, toast and crackers, then she really had been buying it for herself. He wondered what had her eating such foods. Stress? Guilt threatened to drown him at the realization.
He wanted to apologize for the comment he'd made in the grocery store. It had started this whole thing. At least he would've been with her when Sadik called. He wanted to apologize but he didn't think she'd appreciate it. Not at this point, after he'd dug in her cupboards and ruled out Webb as the reason for the change in her diet. He sighed.
"Here." Her soft voice pulled him from his reverie. He looked down to see her hand offering him a cup of coffee. He glanced at her, his hand still on the handle to the fridge door.
She shrugged. "You were just staring into my fridge. The kettle whistling didn't even get your attention. I thought I'd make the drinks."
"Thanks." He glanced down at the mug of coffee, and then took it from her.
"I'm afraid all I have are crackers and breadsticks. I think may have some pound cake in the freezer, but it might be rather old." She filled the silence.
"That's alright," He said. "Just coffee is fine."
He watched her as she walked towards the living room. She'd been covered by her uniform when he'd seen her at Langley. Now she was covered by a sweatshirt. And he hadn't really looked at her body in the last two days. He wondered how much weight she'd lost, and if it was noticeable. If all she was eating was the stuff in her fridge ... He sighed again with worry and followed her into the living room. He had to find a way to get her to talk to him.
He sat down on the opposite end of the couch from her. She was holding her cup of tea, her legs stretched out on the couch between them.
"Sorry for taking all this room," She tilted her head to indicate her outstretched legs. "The scratches are really burning."
"Did you put any cream or ointment on them?" He glanced at her face.
She shook her head, and stood up to head to her room. "It'd probably help," She conceded.
He watched her walk away. Once she was out of sight, he shifted his gaze to the coffee table. He wondered if she'd had a chance to talk to Webb. He deserved to know Sadik was dead.
"Have you spoken with Webb?" He asked when she stepped back into the living room. He thought he sounded passably supportive.
She shook her head as she sat down on the couch. She stared at the tube of ointment in her hands.
"He'll call me." She replied in a subdued tone. "Kershaw's probably already told him. He went to his family's place on the shore to be alone. I won't intrude."
Harm nodded, and wondered at the odd nature of their relationship. How could a phone call about something so significant be an intrusion. He expected he'd never figure them out. To his surprise, Mac kept talking.
"He had a tough week with PT. The shocks did a number on his system." He found her voice to be oddly detached.
"He needs you," Harm said quietly. He hated the idea. Hated it, absolutely hated it. But what could he do about it. He had no control over Mac.
She shook her head absently, lost in thought. "As much as I need him."
That was not what he wanted to hear. He was ready to get up and leave, make his excuses – headache, nausea, a broken heart – but she kept speaking.
"It's strange you know, what people do to survive. Coping mechanisms. It's like giving up just isn't built into us."
He waited, and watched her as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed on the tube of ointment. She was still and serious and something else he couldn't name. Whatever it was, it kept him from walking out her door.
"Take the missionaries Sadik was holding." She continued, her tone was still detached. He wondered where she was. "It was stupid really. We should've banded together. Cooperated. But fear and this primordial need to survive tend to overpower everything. So she blew our covers to Sadik and he shot them both dead anyways. Execution style. Made sure I was watching. I don't know who he did that for. Bastard was quite the showman."
She was speaking so unlike herself, her normal logic and sequencing gone. He had trouble following her but she continued, either unaware or uncaring. Or both.
"And every time they threw Clay back into the cabin, with ..." He felt her release a breath. Her dispassion faltered, her voice tripped and skidded, lost its detached steadiness, "With new burn marks and bruises and fresh blood ... I don't know how to..." She shook her head briskly, took a steadying breath before continuing.
"And he needed something to keep going, to not give up. I was the only thing there, so I was it." She twisted the cap on the tube of ointment off, then on again, repeatedly. She was speaking more rapidly now.
"And I couldn't do anything but sit on my hands, put in useless efforts at planning an escape just so I could block out the sound of his screaming, knowing that the next time the door opened it wouldn't be to throw him in but to pull me out. It got to the point where part of me hoped they would just take me, so I could stop worrying about the when and just face it. And so every time he was thrown back in and I wasn't pulled out, and he looked up at me, with that desperation, that need ... it gave me what I needed. To keep from completely losing it." She stopped, and he could hear her rapid breathing slow.
"And I still ..." She trailed of, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear.
"And then we came back here and everything should've gone back to normal, except scars take a long time to heal, and memories take a long time to forget, and instincts take even longer to remember that they're only habits born of necessity. So the necessity was gone, but the habit was still there." She paused, then amended. "Is still here."
She turned to look at him then, breaking the stillness in the room, catching him off guard. He'd been staring at her so intently while she spoke.
"Do you understand, Harm?"
She studied his face with a wary hesitancy. It made him realize how important the answer was for her.
"I need ... do you to understand?" She repeated.
She sounded so lost, was almost pleading. It was so unlike her. He knew she needed to talk to a professional – this was bigger than just a need to relieve some stress. He also knew she'd bite his head off if he so much as suggested it, let alone insisted. If there was one thing he'd learned about Sarah MacKenzie, it was that she needed to be eased into doing things she was fighting against.
"I understand." He replied, looking her in the eye. He kicked himself for not seeing it before, but he hadn't been in a place where he could've seen it, had he? Apparently Sadik wasn't the only one holding her captive. "Stockholm Syndrome."
Her lip curled wryly. "With another hostage?" She turned away from him and stared at the far wall. He realized that she thought he wasn't taking her seriously, thought he was being snide. His comment hurt her, which worried him.
He moved to sit across from her on the coffee table. He set the tube of ointment she was holding on the table and wrapped his hands around hers.
"Is Webb talking to someone about this?" He asked as gently as he could. 'Webb' had become a swear word for him in recent months.
She nodded, eyeing him warily. "SOP for the CIA after ... that kind of mission."
"Are you?"
Her face hardened suddenly, her eyes turned to steel. She shook her head curtly.
"He got into your head, Mac. Sadik." He said carefully. He was ready for an all out battle on this, was ready to dig his heels in, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.
"He's gone, Harm." Her tone was final.
"Mac. I heard what he said to you." Harm continued patiently, tried to reason with her. That tended to work with Mac, she usually responded well to it. "You were wearing a wire."
"He's dead, Harm." She repeated stubbornly.
"That doesn't solve anything." He took a breath to calm himself when he felt his patience withering. "That doesn't mean it's over. You're still alive, and you have to live with what happened. To you, to Webb, to those missionaries ... to Sadik. " He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.
"I was in control." Her tone didn't waver. He had his work cut out for him.
"I know you were. I'm not saying you weren't, Mac. We both know how to finish a mission. We also both know that the mission doesn't end when someone stamps 'complete' on the folder and files the paperwork."
She nodded reluctantly.
"Don't sweep this under the rug. There are ways to keep this off your record. Webb might be able to help with that. The CIA owes you, the least they can do is refer a civilian for you to talk to." He realized he'd have to be really patient with her and Webb's relationship, as much as it irked him. He'd try his damndest, he promised himself. He'd try. She had acknowledged the skewed nature of her relationship with Webb, and if she saw it as such then ... then it was something. That's what he would tell himself.
She didn't look convinced by his argument, but he decided to let it go. She was considering it, which was enough for now.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and he took the time to admire her hands as he held them in his.
"You went in alone." He finally said. He looked at her face to gauge her reaction.
"It was something I had to do." Her response was immediate, unequivocal.
He could almost taste her conviction. He studied her carefully, and decided to test the waters.
"I would've come with you." He ventured.
"He was watching me. He only called once you walked away, and you still got a concussion. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill you and make me watch, he probably would've gotten off on it." She pointed out her voice steadily rising as she spoke. She paused and took several slow, deep breaths. She looked down at their joined hands. A few moments later, only when her emotions were under control, did she speak. "Besides, I knew you'd find me."
She tilted her face to look at him, her expression saying so much, feeling so much, he could not begin to read it. "We always find each other when lives are on the line," she finished.
It was the first time since he'd listened to the last message she'd left on his answering machine that he heard warmth in her voice.
She squeezed his hand. "Something I learned in Paraguay." She concluded.
"I learned it in the Atlantic Ocean." He looked up at her, eyebrows raised, hoping to underscore his sincerity.
She looked shocked and then, to his surprise, she laughed softly, shaking her head. "We're terrible learners."
He joined her, delighted by the sound of her laughter, the lightness in her tone. He hadn't heard it in such a long time. "Dismal." He concurred.
Her laughter faded and she eyed him, looking thoughtful, considering him carefully. She was debating something. He waited for her decision.
Finally, she spoke. Her tone was tentative yet hopeful. "Permission to hug the spy?" He watched as she bit her lip at the last word, and struggled to keep from laughing. He guessed she was worried she might have offended him.
He simply grinned in response; he'd been thinking she needed a hug since he saw her standing over Sadik, watching him die.
"Granted." He slid onto the couch, held out his arms and pulled her into a firm embrace. He held her tightly, revelled in her familiar scent, the feel of her soft hair against his cheek, her warm body so close to his, her arms holding him just as tightly. She had lost weight, he could feel it. Her body was more wiry, muscled, angular.
He couldn't bear the thought that this hug would have to end at some point. God, how he'd missed her. He was holding everything he'd ever need in his arms.
He wanted her to give him another chance.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His arms held her close to his body.
"Mac. I'm going to resign from the CIA."
Her expression went from contented to alarmed.
"What?" She exclaimed, dumbfounded. "Harm. No. Don't ... I didn't ... Not for ..."
He cut off her fumbled attempts to articulate her objection.
"Not for you, Mac. Not for me. For us, both of us." He waited for her reaction, but lost his patience and his nerve quickly. "Please let me do this, Mac. I don't want to have to worry about the damn CIA and I don't want you to have to. We have a lot to work through."
He didn't know how to explain it to her without offending her. If he was working for the CIA he'd be gone for stretches of time without being able to tell her where he was going or what he was doing. That was hardly going to help her recovery from the shitfest of Paraguay and all the fallout. As it was Webb worked for the CIA, and it was the CIA that sent her to Paraguay, and then left her to the wolves – bastards even did a crap job of her psych eval. And the Admiral didn't bother following up either ... Harm stopped himself from thinking about the Admiral.
He wanted to be there for Mac. He knew what he had to do to keep her, and he wanted to do it. He needed to do it.
"We have a lot to work through, and we need to be there for each other." He struggled to find a better way to convince her. He studied her intently. "Ask me again."
"Ask you again?" She seemed a little lost, and he had to remind himself that she couldn't read all of his thoughts.
"The question, Mac ... Riddle me this," He prompted.
She hesitated for an instant, and searched his eyes. Then straightened her spine and took a breath, steeling herself. But her voice only came out as a whisper, and held nothing of the false bravado she'd put forward on that bed in Paraguay. "You damn near got yourself killed to come find me. Why?"
He didn't even let himself pause to think it over.
"Because you're all that matters, Mac, and nothing I do could ever be enough to show how important you are, how much you mean to me, how much I love you." He cupped her face with his hands, ran his thumbs over her cheeks, and poured in all the sincerity he was made of into his words.
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Mac, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to make that happen."
He watched the tears silently gather in her eyes, watched them drop one by one from her eyelashes and trail down her cheeks. She looked a bit disbelieving, overwhelmed. He wondered if maybe she wasn't ready to hear this just yet, if he should've waited...
"I mean it, Mac." He hugged her close and whispered into her ear, tried to convey just how fiercely he felt this. "I can say it now because I mean it."
He felt her slow nod against his neck.
"On your timeline, Mac." He added. "I'm not going anywhere."
She pulled back, her face wet with tears, her eyes reddened. He smiled at the picture she presented, and again felt that inexplicable tug towards her. He knew he'd never stop feeling it.
"I'll talk to Clay about ... about talking to someone." Mac began hesitantly. "Maybe his therapist can refer me to someone." She paused as she looked him in the eye. "I would also do anything, Harm, if it meant having you in my life. Anything for you."
"I know." He slowly leaned in to her and kissed her on the cheek, satisfying himself with letting his lips linger on her warm, soft skin, still damp from her tears. He didn't want to chance doing more when both their emotions were running high, and her vulnerabilities even more so.
"We're learning." She teased, a hesitant smile waiting for him when he pulled back.
He grinned, beyond pleased to be on the receiving end of her sense of humour.
"Slowly but surely, Sarah." It took all his strength not to kiss her, to ignore the feel of her delicate hands resting on his chest.
She kept looking at him, humour replaced by a deep intensity. He was about to start worrying when she leaned forward and kissed him lightly. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of her lips touching his. Not daring to move because he didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from doing something monumentally premature and inappropriate.
He felt her pull back, but only opened his eyes when the warmth of her lips faded from his. She was still watching him, her intensity not wavering. He forced himself to look away. He needed to break the weight of the moment. His eyes fell on the tube of ointment. He picked it up and uncapped the lid.
"Here," he said gently, squeezing some of the cream onto his fingers. He moved back to sit on the coffee table. Perched at a safe distance from her. "Let's take a look at your legs."
"I can take care of it, Harm." She rested her hand on his forearm.
He looked up at her, eyebrow raised. "The cream's already out of the tube, Mac." One corner of his lip lifted in a smile. "I can't put it back."
She didn't respond, instead she stared at the palms of his hands. Harm followed her gaze; she'd caught sight of the scratch marks he'd gotten from the asphalt at the back of the grocery store. He watched her expression, mesmerized, as she ran of her fingers over the scrape marks criss-crossing his palms. She was looking at his hands so attentively. Finally, she looked into his eyes and gave him an unselfconscious grin. She let go his hands and rolled up her sweatpants.
He returned her smile and took her right foot, placing it on his knee. As tenderly as he knew how, he rubbed the ointment onto the scratches along her leg. She really had done a number on herself, he thought, intent on his task, his mind replaying the look on her face as she'd examined his hands. It occurred to him that they'd always been there for each other during the fight, but had never stuck around for the post-fight. What had he said? The mission doesn't end with paperwork being filed? He could learn something from that too. They'd saved each other countless times. But how often were they there for each other when it came time to heal, to deal with the outcomes, and to recover from the consequences?
That was going to change.