A/N: Ah, a new story. Don't worry, it's all pretty much written—I've been writing it on the side. I was inspired by Zack Bryan's I Remember Everything. It just made me think of a post-Paraguay Harm if he hadn't come back to JAG after being let go from the CIA. I wish they'd let DJE sing more—and NOT just when he was singing for Annie. That's scene is high on my list of awkward (disturbing) moments of JAG.

I Remember Everything

Chapter 1: Rot Gut Whiskey

She found him sitting at the bar, nursing a bottle of beer from which he'd obviously peeled off the label. Bits of it lay on the bar in front of him, and his fingers idly picked them up then let them fall. He looked older, with a few more lines around his eyes, a bit of grey at the temples, and more than a five o'clock shadow. Despite that, he was still beautiful, still fit, the muscles of his back and shoulders pulling at the faded denim shirt he sported. She had no doubt his jeans still hugged a perfect six, and even after all this time, she still felt the happy thrill that came every time she saw them.

However, though the thrill was the same, she hesitated. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years; after months of unanswered calls and ignored visits to his apartment, he'd left Washington behind. She'd heard he'd gone to Texas, but until she'd practically begged his parents to give her his exact location, she hadn't known he was here.

She'd arrived in the small town of Earth, TX this afternoon, having taken the last 3 days to drive here from DC. She knew she could have flown, but like Harm, there was nothing keeping her in Washington. She'd put most of her things in storage, loaded up the rest in the back of her "new" used Jeep, and left town. She wasn't sure where she was ultimately going, maybe back to Arizona, but she knew she had to see Harm first.

Now that she could see him "in the flesh" so to speak, she was torn between running and throwing her arms around him or just running straight out of this dive bar's front door.

Stop being a coward, she admonished herself. She hadn't driven almost seventeen hundred miles to not speak to him, so, shoring herself up, she walked to his side.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were actually going to come over here," he said, his eyes still focused on the bottle in front of him. She was surprised he'd known she was here; she hadn't seen any indication he'd noticed her.

He gave a dismissive gesture, then answered her unspoken question. "I always know where you are."

The familiar words made her breathe in sharply while Harm sighed, then motioned to the seat next to him. "You may as well sit." He took a sip of his beer as she tentatively climbed on to the bar stool beside him. He waved down the bartender, a thin, pretty redhead, then finally made eye contact with her. "The usual?"

Mac shook her head. "Just a Coke." Contrary to popular belief, she actually hated the tonic water and lime concoction, but it had seemed more sophisticated to order that rather than her favorite soft drink. Harm gave the order to the woman, whom she learned was named Jenny, and soon enough, the younger woman was cracking open a cold, not oft seen bottle of Coca-Cola and setting it before her.

"So, what brings you here, Sarah?" He inquired before draining the last of his beer. Another bottle of Coors almost instantly appeared in front of him. The sound of her given name on his lips, said with irritation rather than in the loving tones she once knew, nearly made her cry. Don't let him get to you, she told herself as she stiffened her shoulders.

"You, I guess," she replied, taking a long drag of her drink.

"You guess, huh? What's it been? Two years?"

"Not quite."

"Wasn't sure I'd ever see you again," he said after a moment of silence between them.

"Neither was I."

Harm released a bitter chuckle. "I see. So, how did you find me?"

"Your parents."

"I'll have to thank them," he answered with undisguised sarcasm.

"I'm sure. If it makes you feel better, they were reluctant to tell me, but after my begging, they finally took pity on me."

Harm shifted on his stool and spun it toward her. "Sarah MacKenzie begging. Who knew we'd ever see the day?"

Mac bit her lip and looked away from him. "I begged you not to join the CIA."

"And I begged you not to go to Paraguay, yet here we are," he replied bitterly.

"I had to—" she started to say, then shook her head. "Harm, can we go somewhere quiet to talk?"

"No."

"Harm, please."

"No can do, Mac. I have a thing."

"A thing. What thing?"

"If you can keep yourself from running off, you'll find out."

"Harm, I didn't—"

"Right. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed elsewhere." He slid of the stool and sauntered toward the back of the bar, where a rough-hewn wooden stage had been set up. When he was halfway there, he looked over his shoulder at her and winked, his sardonic smile looking out of place on his beautiful face.

Mac cringed. He only smiled at her that way when he was angry with her. She hated that smile, but curiosity about his "thing" overran her desire to smack him. She watched as he climbed the steps to the stage, her eyes widening when an older man handed him a guitar. Harm slid his pick out from where it lay tucked between the guitar's strings and its neck, then stuck it between his lips as he sat down on a stool. There was a microphone set up, and as soon as he positioned it to his liking, he took his pick from his mouth and strummed a few chords. He made a few adjustments, then started to play.

It was a melancholy tune, one Mac hadn't heard before, and when he started to sing both she and the crowd sat mesmerized. She'd heard him sing many times before, but now his voice was rougher, more mature as he sang of years of sadness and heartbreak. The only time she'd heard him sound anywhere close to this was when he'd played just for her. Of course, the songs then had been ones of love gained, not love lost. The memories assailed her, and she was transported to another place, another time, where her lover sat on a beatdown basement couch and sang of his devotion for her. Only her…

"So, this is where you used to hang out, huh?" Mac gazed around at the only room in his parents' house that wasn't tastefully decorated. Nineteen seventies paneling surrounded them, along with yellow shag carpeting, a few ancient chairs, and a couch that had obviously seen better days. It was upholstered in a cheap green fabric that was somewhere between olive and forest green, and it was absolutely wretched. Mac found, however, that she liked it. She could see Harm sitting there as an angsty teenager, picking out various folk songs on an old guitar.

"Oh, yeah. My mom was sure I was sneaking in girls and smoking pot down here, but I was just teaching myself every Gordon Lightfoot song there was."

"Gordon Lightfoot? Cool."

"Yeah, I was definitely cool," he laughed.

Mac chuckled as well. "Tell the truth, Harm. You had to have brought a girl or two in here."

Harm winked at her. "Well, maybe."

The two of them grinned at each other for a moment, then Harm pulled her over to the couch. It was surprisingly comfortable, and before she knew it was happening, Harm pushed her back and covered her with his body.

"Be careful, Harm. Your mom might come down and check on us."

"She's at the gallery and won't be home 'til four."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm sure, Mac," he answered as he started unbuttoning her blouse.

"Thank god," she whispered, then pulled him down to capture his lips with hers.

An hour later, Harm had found his first guitar. He tuned it as best he could, then started in on a folksy love song from another era. Mac sat on the floor and listened to his smooth baritone, knowing she would never love another as she loved him.

Harm sang four equally sad songs, each one delighting the crowd. The fifth, his last, was more upbeat, but the words made her eyes burn with tears. It was the song he'd sung to her in his parents' basement, one he'd written himself, only this time the chords were harsh, the tempo fast, belying the loving words woven within it.

"Well, how did I do?" Harm asked as he sat down beside her again.

"Great. You, ah, play here often?"

"A fair amount. So, any questions, critiques, comments?" he asked knowingly. No doubt he wanted her opinion on his last song. Her song.

"None that I can think of."

Harm's sardonic smile was back. "Well, I'm glad I didn't disappoint."

"Oh, you could never do that, Harm."

Harm's smirk faltered as she spoke the word that had broken them, but then he almost immediately schooled his features into a neutral arrogance. It happened so fast one could have imagined the despair in his eyes had never been.

He turned away from her, motioned to Jenny, and a shot of rot gut whiskey was set in front of him. He downed it in one swallow, Mac flinching for him as she imagined the liquor burning its way down his throat.

"So, how long are you staying?" Harm asked, his lips close to her ear. She winced, the harsh odor of alcohol on his breath nauseating her. He had never been one for drinking, and when he did, it was usually a beer or maybe an expensive bourbon. What he'd just drunk was worse than the cheapest booze her father had enjoyed, and she wondered if her Harm was completely gone.

"Sorry." Harm sat up straighter, and with surprise, Mac realized he was sincere.

"It's okay."

Their eyes met, his a dark, stormy blue, hers a chocolate-coated amber. For a moment, Harm gazed tenderly upon her, and then his hand reached out. She was sure he was going to stroke her face or gently cup her cheek as he had often done before, and she leaned toward him. His hand, however, remained suspended in midair, and a moment later, the spell had been broken. He downed another shot and Mac looked away, only for their eyes to meet again in the mirror behind the bar.

"Well, Mac. I have to get going," Harm said a few minutes later, sliding off his barstool. Mac followed suit as he threw several bills on the bar. She reached into her purse, not expecting him to pay for her, but he shook his head. "I got it."

"You don't have to—"

"I said, I got it, Mac." His voice was firm, and Mac knew better than to argue with him.

"Thanks," she replied softly, then followed him out as he wove in between the crowd of people. It surprised her so many seemed to congregate here. It certainly wasn't any McMurphy's; its walls needed a few coats of paint, and the sign outside needed a few bulbs replaced, but clearly it was popular.

Once they'd stepped out into the night air, Harm took her arm. "Well, it was good seeing you. Where are you parked? I'll walk you to your car." He sounded as if helping her in any way was the last thing he wanted to do, but being a chivalrous man, he couldn't help himself. His hand moved to rest on the small of her back, and he urged her forward. "Come on, Mac."

Mac didn't budge. She needed to talk to him, and to do that, she needed him to stay here, or she needed to go home with him. "Harm, why don't you let me drive you. I know you've had a bit to drink."

"Not that much."

"Still—"

"I'm fine, Mac. Now, where is your car? I need to get going. Crops don't dust themselves, and I've got an early morning." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Hey, how did you know where I'd be tonight?"

"I stopped by the hanger. They told me you would likely be here."

"I see. So, what did you think of my current place of business? It's not JAG or the CIA, after all."

She stared him down, her eyes full of challenge. "I liked it. Nice people. I saw Sarah."

"Yeah, I couldn't leave that Sarah behind, could I."

"Harm…" Mac sighed.

"What?" he asked, oh so innocently.

"Nothing, but I do want to talk to you. At least let me follow you home."

"It was good to see you again," he repeated, ignoring her words. "Come back sometime." Sarcasm colored his tone.

"Dammit, Harm!" She pulled away from him then stood with her arms crossed over her chest. "I came here to talk to you. Let. Me. Drive. You. Home!"

Harm released a long-suffering sigh. "One, I can drive myself, and two, I think we've said everything that we needed to say, sweetheart."

"That's not true and you know it. You avoided me for months then just disappeared. You owe me a conversation!"

"I most certainly do not, Sarah," he growled, and then he abruptly moved away from her. Making a motion as if he were tipping his hat, he turned on his heel, and with long strides, he stalked toward a muddy blue Ford pickup. It was from the early nineteen sixties by the look of it, but it was certainly no collector's item. He yanked open the door and hopped in, the engine roaring to life seconds later. He slipped it into gear and tore out of the parking lot before Mac could even think to move. Cursing, she unlocked her Jeep, rammed the key into the ignition, then raced after what she hoped were the rear lights of his truck.

End Chapter 1