Fallout
Part 6
Disclaimer: Don't own'em
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JAG HQ
Monday
1131 Local
Mac had successfully drowned herself in the draining minutiae of paperwork all morning. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it. She wished Harm were here so she could complain. It had been one of the things she'd missed most about his absence from the office. Hell, to be honest there were a lot of things she missed about how things used to be in this office.
Her phone rang, interrupting her rather morose thoughts. She sent up silent thanks for the distraction.
"MacKenzie." She answered.
"Good morning, MacKenzie," Harm cheerfully greeted her.
"Harm." She grinned into the receiver, savouring the sound of his voice. When was the last time he'd called her? She sobered as she remembered the probable reason for his call. "So, how'd it go?"
"You're talking to a free agent, Mac. And not that kind of agent." His smile was audible, but she couldn't shake her guilt, her sense of responsibility. It had kept her from getting much sleep after he'd left her apartment last night.
"Harm. I'm sorry..."
"None of that, Mac." He cut in sternly. "I haven't felt this good in five months."
She wasn't entirely convinced.
"What're you doing now?" She tried to keep her guilt from being apparent, and to sound supportive.
"Well, I was thinking of blowing the last of my nest egg on a Harley," He replied conversationally. "Gunning it down some country roads and finding a job with more regular hours and no benefits. Like crop dusting. Maybe milking cows. Delivering newspapers."
"That would probably be the most mature, responsible thing to do," She teased. "How about instead you meet me for lunch."
"You have the time?" He inquired, surprised.
She shook her head and sighed as she eyed the bullpen through her office window. Then she remembered he couldn't see her, so she answered him verbally. "I'll make the time. I need to get out of here for a bit."
"Take the rest of the afternoon off." He suggested. "I'll make it worth your while."
"Sounds tempting, but I'd rather not. I'm not in the mood to talk to the Admiral – Oh," She tried to recant hastily. "Sorry." She'd noticed this weekend that Chegwidden had become a touchy subject for Harm, and she promised herself to avoid mentioning his former superior to him, at least for time being.
"What did he do now?" His tone turned cold, steely. She could imagine the look on his face. He needed to come to terms with this, she knew, resolve it somehow. There were so many things that needed to be fixed. So many things.
"Nothing, Harm." She hastened to assure him. "I promise. He just ... isn't himself and it's starting to get a bit ... much. JAG Ops just isn't what you remember."
"Well, Ms. MacKenzie, why don't you tell me more about it over lunch." He cut in, trying for some levity. Mac smiled at his attempt to put her at ease.
"I'd rather talk about other things." She replied, following his hint.
"Like what?" He sounded quite earnest. Her smile deepened.
"Like where you learned to ride a Harley."
He laughed. "Is that your wild side I'm hearing?"
"You haven't met my wild side yet, Harmon." She grinned, exhilarated by the thought that she was flirting so boldly with him.
"I can't wait." He replied smoothly. She could picture the look in his eyes.
"Neither can I ..." A sudden noise from the bullpen reminded her where she was, and how different everything had become in the past few months. She bit back her sigh, not wanting Harm to worry. "Where shall I meet you?"
"Is that sandwich place still open?"
"Yup."
"Give me 20 minutes, I'll meet you there."
"See you, Harm." She said, brightening at the prospect. She couldn't wait to get out of the office.
"In a few, Mac."
She hung up the phone and started gathering her things with a spring to her step. She hadn't felt this ... good in ages. Or this hungry. She grinned.
She'd collected her purse and put on her coat when her phone rang again. She debated not picking it up, but since she didn't plan on worrying about taking a long lunch, she decided she ought to at least pretend to care about work before she left for her long lunch. She picked up the phone.
"MacKenzie."
"Sarah, it's me."
"Clay." A cannonball of unease took up firm residence in the pit of Mac's stomach. "Did you have a good weekend?" Her voice sounded fake to her own ears.
"Kershaw just told me what happened on Saturday." He stated, and then hesitated. She wondered which question he would ask her first. "Why didn't you call me."
She was oddly unsurprised, though disappointed, that he picked that question. No please, Clay, she thought to herself. Don't worry. I'm fine.
"I didn't know if I'd be able to reach you." One part honesty, one part avoidance.
There was a notable pause on his end. He finally spoke. "Are you free for dinner."
Mac hesitated. She did have to face him, she reasoned. They needed to talk. She had to tell him...
"I, uh, actually need to talk about something with you."
"I'll make reservations. There's a new place that opened up this weekend. They have a fantastic wine cellar and the chef is renowned for his duck confit."
"No, Clay. Not over dinner." She didn't want to sit across the table from him while he drank a 100 bottle of wine on his own. She wanted them both to have a clear head. "I'll stop by to see you after work. Are you at home?"
There was another pause on his end. "My apartment."
"Okay. I'll be there after work."
He remained silent.
"Clay?"
"After work." He repeated. "I'll see you later then."
He hung up without waiting for her response. He had never done that before. She kept holding the phone until the intermittent beep of a disconnected line sounded in her ear, startling her out of her stupor.
She put the phone down, and tried to tame the sudden waves of guilt that mercilessly battered her resolve.
No, she told herself. She could do this. She could. She sat down heavily on her chair and stared unseeing at her phone. She would go see Clay after work. Right now, she was going to meet Harm for lunch. And she was going to be late, she realized with a start. Mac jumped out of her chair and hurried towards the elevators.
--
The Sandwich Box
Monday
1202 Local
Harm took a seat at one of the tables in the restaurant. He glanced at his watch: Mac was late. It was unlike her, but he figured she got caught up at work. He tried to convince himself not to worry – he wouldn't admit to her that he was more than a little concerned about her, concerned she'd just crumble under the weight of worry she seemed to be carrying. He wished she'd talk to someone about it. He'd just about convinced himself not to fret when Mac rushed in through the restaurant doors. She caught sight of him and broke into a smile, making her way around the tables and chairs. He stood up and pulled out a chair for her, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek.
"Hey, Mac."
He grinned as he pulled back, and was pleased to see the muted delight on her face. He could still see, though, that something was troubling her.
"Harm." She gave him a brief smile and took a seat across from him.
They both opened their menus. He could see that she wasn't really looking at the booklet in front of her. He was about to ask her about her mood when she looked at him, her expression wary and reluctant and worried.
"Clay called me just after I hung up with you. That's the reason I'm late." She paused, then added, "I'm sorry."
"What for?" He looked down, studying his menu intently, trying to feign indifference at hearing Webb's name, trying to ignore the worry that was gnawing right through his stomach lining. Trying not to panic over the reason behind her apology. Trying not to get upset over it.
"For making you wait here." She replied.
"I haven't been here that long, Mac." That sounded more impatient than he'd intended. He paused, and had to convince himself to continue. He was an adult. It was an effort to keep the bitterness out of his tone, he knew she'd react to it if she detected it. "How's Webb?" He glanced up from his menu, at Mac.
"He's not doing well." She looked so sad, guilty. He didn't know what to make of it, how to feel about it.
"Oh." Was all he could say. He reminded himself that he was the one she'd kissed last night.
She watched him carefully as she spoke her next words.
"I'm going to go see him after work today. To ..." She searched his face. "Explain things."
Harm managed to nod. He hoped it came across as encouraging.
"And ask him if his therapist can refer me to someone." She continued.
Harm nodded again, a lot more easily and sincerely this time. "That's good, Mac."
"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly.
They sat in silence and stared at their menus. Harm wasn't actually able to register any of the words printed in front of him. He wondered if Mac was faring any better.
He suddenly felt her fingers come to rest on his wrist. He looked up to see Mac watching him, her expression earnest.
"Harm. I need to explain things to Clay. About you and me. And where we stand with each other. He needs ... he needs his friends."
He needs you, Harm thought silently, and his gaze dropped to his menu. He forced himself to look back up at Mac.
"Anything I can do?" He tried to sound supportive. He really did want to help her. But why the hell did she have to help Webb.
She hesitated.
"Name it, Mac." He insisted, hating that she was hesitating.
"I've really missed that grilled salmon with mango salsa that you make." She said finally.
He laughed despite himself. Leave it to Mac to think of dinner before she'd even ordered her lunch. "It'll be my pleasure, Mac."
"I'm not sure what time I'll be over." She informed him. Her regret was plain to see, which made him feel better. "It shouldn't take more than a half hour—"
"Take your time, Mac." He assured her, feeling generous at the sight of how hard this seemed to be for her. He turned his hand, palm upwards, and wrapped his fingers around hers.
"Thanks, Harm." She gave him a warm, thankful smile and went back to perusing her menu. Her hand stayed in his.
He studied her over the top of his menu, and noticed that she held her smile as she read the day's specials. It was then that he realized what she'd just done. She knew how therapeutic cooking was for him; it would give him something to do other than worry about her and Webb talking about ... stuff. He smiled at how well she knew him, at how hard she was trying. His admiration for her went up a notch, as did his faith in the thing between them, whatever it was, and he contented himself with simply watching her read her menu until the waiter came to take their lunch orders.
--
Webb's Apartment
Monday
1753 Local
Mac watched Clay as he stared out of the window. He'd let her into his apartment after she'd knocked, given one word answers to her inquiries about his health, and then he'd just stood with his back to her, staring out the window. In silence. She could see the tension in his bearing.
She wondered how much Kershaw had told him about Saturday. Did he know Harm was a part of the mission? That he'd resigned from the CIA?
She didn't know how to start. She wanted so keenly not to hurt him, but wasn't sure whose sake that was for, his or hers.
"Clay, I ..." She wished she'd rehearsed during the drive over instead of concentrating on keeping her lunch down. She decided on being blunt about it. He deserved her honesty, she told herself. "Do you remember that conversation we had? Down ... there? About my already having the right man?"
Webb turned and stared at her, his face fell. He looked broken. He nodded slowly. "This is about Rabb."
It was Mac's turn to nod. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
"You said he'd run right over you." Clay stated, it sounded like an accusation.
"You said I needed a man who would stand up to me." She replied, and knew it came out sounding defensive. Only after she spoke, did she realize that it may offend him.
"Do you?" He eyed her carefully. She felt like she was under interrogation, and wondered how much of that impression just stemmed from her own unease at this situation.
"What?" She frowned, unable to understand the question. It wasn't like Clay to be a miser with his words.
"Need Rabb." His expression didn't change.
She paused to give it some thought. Finally, she shook her head. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that none of us really need anything. We just make ourselves believe we do." She looked down at her hands, unexpectedly saddened at hearing that thought voiced out loud. She looked back at Clay. "But his support makes things ... more manageable."
"The same goes for me, Sarah." He said earnestly. "Your support does that. Makes things more manageable." There was a desperate edge to his voice.
"I'm still your friend, Clay. You still have my support." She insisted.
He didn't say anything to that, just stared out the window.
"Clay." She changed tracks, feeling increasingly unsettled. "The therapist you're seeing, do you think he could refer someone to me?"
"No." He did not look at her.
She started, confused. "What does that mean?"
"I'm not seeing the counsellor." His words were sharp. "My sessions ended a few weeks ago."
"A few weeks?" She stared at him. "But..."
"I'm fine, Sarah," he said irritably. "I'm in control. I know what I'm doing. Besides, he's dead."
She heard herself in his words. They were eerily reminiscent of the ones she'd told Harm. They echoed relentlessly in her head. I'm fine. He's dead. I'm fine. He's dead. She closed her eyes, and tried to regain her balance. When she opened them, Clay was looking right at her, his expression was ... discomfiting.
"He's dead." He repeated. "You killed him." He was watching her intently, trying to read something in her eyes. She guessed what it was. She didn't want him to see it in her, but she could not look away. She needed to leave. She couldn't breathe.
"How did it feel, Sarah? The report says you stabbed him. That's a very ... intimate way of killing someone." The words rolled off his tongue. She was having difficulty seeing him. What was happening.
She needed to leave.
"Killing someone always is an intimate experience." His eyes were on her, but his gaze turned distant, his voice an afterthought. "Just you, him, and the life hanging between you. And then you're left. Alone. You only die once, after all. Can only kill once."
His words shook her from her sudden suffocating claustrophobia. Alone? It didn't sound right. Her worry for him increased. She quashed her unease.
"Clay." She touched her hand to his arm. His gaze focussed on her, he pulled himself out of his mind and looked at her, mildly curious. "You need to talk to someone about this. All of it." She insisted.
"I'm fine, Mac." His tone brooked no room for dissent.
"Clay—"
"Go, Mac. To your right man." He turned back to the window.
"Clay. Listen to me. You need to—"
"They're putting me back in the field as soon as the physical therapist clears me. I think a couple more weeks, at the most." He didn't look at her, kept staring at the red and golden leaves on the branches just outside the window.
She tried again, felt like she was floundering. "You—"
"It'll be good to be back at work again." He cut her off.
She realized she would not be getting anywhere with him today. It was time for a strategic retreat.
"Call me if you need anything, Clay. And I mean anything." She tried not to sound too disappointed or too desperate.
He looked her right in the eye, his tone solemn, abrupt, final. "Not anything, Sarah." He shook his head. "Not anything."
They stared at each other for a long moment. She slowly turned on her heel and left, unable to bring herself to look back.
She wondered if she'd ever hear from him again. She hoped fervently, selfishly, that she would.
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