Summary: Harm almost murdered Diane's killer on a Friday. What happened Saturday? (A Death Watch post-ep.)
A/N: Thanks for the positive feedback on my first FFN post! This is a repost from AO3. Originally written Feb 2024.
Just a quick Death Watch ficlet that wouldn't leave me alone. Thanks to Eve and Regency for looking this over for me! Title from "I Want to Know What Love Is" by Foreigner.
Harm almost murdered Diane's killer on a Friday.
He spent most of Saturday staring at the wall, trying to shove down the writhing mass of rope that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach.
He felt guilty, he realized.
Not for meeting Hobarth. Not for being ready to commit murder. Certainly not for Hobarth's death.
Harm felt guilty because when he'd kissed Mac in that white skirt and Lieutenant's bars and Navy cover, he hadn't thought of Diane. Not for a minute, not then, and not any of the moments afterward.
Sure, they looked the same. But that kiss was all Mac—all fierceness on top and sweetness beneath—and it was impossible, he knew now, to ever think of another woman while kissing Sarah MacKenzie.
He thought of how she'd met his gaze matter-of-factly afterwards, eyes softer than he'd ever seen them but no less clear.
"I know. You were kissing her."
He hadn't corrected her.
Kissing Mac when he was trying to avenge Diane felt like he'd somehow betrayed both of them at once. Diane because he hadn't thought of her once Mac's lips touched his; Mac because he'd let her think he had.
Two of the most remarkable women in his life, and they had to wear the same face. Someone out there certainly had a sense of humor.
They deserved more than his muddied attempts to keep them separate, he thought morosely.
It wasn't just the kiss, though. It was the way Mac had bullied him into the passenger seat of his own car, but had let him have his silence. The way she gripped the wheel with a white-knuckled grip that bent even the driving rain to her will.
Diane would have gotten him back safe and sound, too, but she would have cajoled him to talk, Harm thought. Gently, with a light hand on his arm and quiet, thoughtful commentary of her own.
When the rain faded and all that was left was the cool gray sky, he went for a jog, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind. When that didn't work, he plucked out some notes on his guitar, but every note sounded mournful.
He didn't try to go to work. His mind was elsewhere, and he took pride in his work, if not the mess he'd made of his relationships with his coworkers. He hadn't forgotten Bud's hand in getting Mac to the dock in time.
He was lost in the memories again, reliving memories of Diane and Mac until they swirled together and transformed into memories of his father, when a knock sounded at his apartment door.
A glance at the clock told him it was exactly 1700.
Even knowing the time, his heart still stumbled over Mac standing in his doorway. She was dressed in a casual v-neck sweater and jeans, and if he didn't see the brave, deliberately casual smile on her face he could almost imagine the previous night had been a dream, a nightmare born of grief and guilt and wishes that would never be.
But it hadn't been a dream. He knew that as well as she did.
"Mac," he said, hoping his voice sounded less broken than it felt.
She held up a paper bag. "I wanted to make sure you ate something."
"Oh." It was her traditional peace offering salad, and he wasn't sure what they needed to make peace about. "Come on in."
"I wasn't planning on staying." Mac hovered in the doorway.
"You brought food," he said, striding away from the door to set the salad on the counter.
"Just for you. Mine's in the car. I figure I'm probably the last person you want to see right now."
"No," he blurted. "Stay, Mac."
She studied him, and he wondered if she caught the raw plea in his voice. "Okay. Sure. I'll grab my burger and be right back."
Mac acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, taking his uncharacteristic quiet in stride. It helped that she'd bought herself a Beltway burger, and if there was one thing in the world that could distract Mac it was a misshapen lump of grease, white flour, and dead animal. Harm sometimes thought that he ranked second to the local Beltway Burgers drive-thru cashier in Mac's list of friends.
It was after she'd finished the burger, when she left to wash her hands and returned to find him in exactly the same position she'd left him in, that she tried to address the previous day's events.
Harm couldn't blame her. He'd been pushing around his salad, and when she'd risen from her seat, he had reverted to the distant, unfocused state in which he'd spent most of the afternoon.
Mac laid a hand on his arm and he shoved down the urge to flinch away. "Harm? Are you all right?"
"I—" His gaze darted down to where her hand covered his own. He sighed.
"I feel…guilty." It was all he could give her. He pulled away; strode to the window. The previous day's thunderstorms had given way to low-hanging gray clouds, but without sunlight, fog and slick streets were still all he saw.
"You wouldn't have shot Hobarth," Mac said with conviction. "Not to kill."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"I know you, Harm." He felt her hand rest carefully between his shoulder blades. "If you feel guilty about him, don't."
He swallowed. Watched the rain.
"It's not about Hobarth."
"For what, then? Not saving Diane? There was nothing you could have done."
"I know." He wasn't facing her, but he could see her expression in the window—the furrow of her brow, the tightness around her eyes that told him she shared his pain without even knowing the cause. His heart tightened.
He took a deep breath. Steeled himself. "It wasn't fair to you, Mac."
"I understood." She stepped closer. "I understand."
He turned, then, looked down into Mac's wide, searching eyes. They were filled with concern and forgiveness and faith and not an ounce of regret that the kiss hadn't been for her.
"I understand," she repeated.
"I don't think you can," he said softly. Brokenly. How could he tell her his longing for Diane had been mixed up with his longing for her since she'd pulled him aboard a helicopter above the desert, and it'd taken him nearly murdering a man to realize it? "But thank you, Mac. For dinner and…everything."
She smiled a little. "Of course."
She was standing so close that he could smell her shampoo, and he wanted to kiss her again. Wanted all her strength and sweetness beside him as he battled the demons that had come home to roost. The intensity of that want—the vehemence with which his heart screamed that he wanted to kiss Mac, not Diane—surprised him.
But Mac believed he'd been kissing Diane, and he didn't want to know what she'd think if she learned he had been kissing her. He definitely didn't want to know exactly how he'd be castrated if he tried it again.
So instead, he watched as she gathered her things, and let her walk out into the night.
When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the ghost of her lips on his.