"All of it too much," she adds.
"If you really feel that way, and it's all too much then why did you change your mind?"
The warm tears kiss her face as she stares at Harriet, trying to formulate an answer. She wrings her hands, and sorts through things that she doesn't want to feel. After careful consideration she finally answers, "I don't know."
"Obviously something changed your mind," Harriet points out.
"I don't want to do this. I don't want to have this conversation."
"We don't have to have it right now," she reassures her.
"I don't ever want to have it," she insists.
"At some point you have to have it," she argues.
"No, I don't."
Harriet nods, and realizes that Mac is not receptive to any form of reason, or logic in her present state. She relents, and walks away from the situation.
"I should go pick the kids up."
Mac nods in agreement, and sees her to the door.
She is sitting in her car in the JAG parking lot the following morning. The winter air is moist, and vengeful. The ground is cold, and icy, and she has no desire to vacate the safety of her warm car with heated seats to head into the office. She sits in the driver's seat with her head leaning against the steering wheel. She contemplates turning around, and going home.
Someone rapping on her window interrupts her train of thought, and catches her attention. She sits back in her seat, and looks to her left. She finds a pair of icy blue eyes staring at her. She furrows her brow in confusion. She unlocks the door, and he walks around the front of her car. He climbs into the passenger's side of the vehicle. He closes the door, and she studies his body language and facial expression. She tries to decipher the look on his face, but it proves futile.
"Agent Gibbs what are you doing here?"
"Your name came up during an investigation," he reveals.
"Are you going to try to pin another murder on me?"
"No," he shakes his head with a grin on his face.
"Am I a suspect, or a person of interest?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
"You're on the list."
She shoots him a questioning look, "What list?"
"A hit list."
"Excuse me?"
"You're on a hit list," he repeats.
"You've got to be kidding."
"Hardly."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Your life is in danger."
"Whose hit list?"
"Are you familiar with the name Malachi Hafiz?"
"Yes," she nods.
"You prosecuted him for war crimes," he reminds her.
"I recall. He was given a life sentence."
"He never made it to prison."
"He hanged himself en route," she recounts.
"He left a manifesto for his followers. It seems as if he updated it mid-way through his trial."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"There were thirty seven names on the list. His followers have been successful in eliminating most of them."
"Define most," she insists.
"Thirty three. One died of natural causes two years ago."
"That leaves three names," she calculates, "What is your point?"
"We managed to get a copy of the manifesto. There are explicit instructions."
"I assume that you have been commissioned capture his followers."
"We have been unable to locate all of them."
"Agent Gibbs I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself."
"I don't doubt that counselor."
"Then why are you here?"
"I just wanted to give you a heads up."
"Thank you. Is that all?"
"Maybe you should consider lying low for a while."
"I don't think that should be a problem."
"You should probably cancel your retirement party," he adds.
"It's not for a month. I am confident that you will be able to put all of this to bed by then."
"If I can't?"
She sighs in frustration. "Then you can come and be my personal body guard, if it would make you feel better," she responds sarcastically.
He doesn't say anything. He exits the vehicle. Once she's certain that he's gone she climbs out of the SUV onto the icy pavement.
That night she lies in her bed wide awake. Despite the fact that it's been nearly a year since she's shared a bed with someone on a regular basis the bed feels particularly empty. She stares at the ceiling. Her fingers are laced together, and they rest on top of the covers. Her covers are folded at her waist. She contemplates her future. She finds her head spinning, considering all of the possibilities. It's nearly two o'clock in the morning, and she's been in bed since ten.
The state of affairs in her life over the past several months have her in a state of consistent exhaustion. Despite that fact she can't seem to find sleep. She glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It tells her that her internal clock is still accurate, and that she has less than four hours before she has to be up for the day.
"Mommy," she hears a tiny voice whisper.
She rolls onto her side, and finds Izzy standing at the side of the bed.
"Baby why aren't you sleeping?"
"Can I sleep here?"
"Why are you awake?"
"Mommy, please!"
Mac peels back the covers, and pats the empty spot in bed next to her. The toddler climbs into the bed next to her. She tucks the little girl in underneath the covers. Izzy presses her cold toes against her legs. Mac kisses her forehead.
"Why are you in here?"
"I missed you," Izzy explains.
"I missed you more," Mac admits.
"Night."
"Good night, Izzy, love you."