Title: "Clearing Skies"
Author: AeroGirl
Email: michaerogirl@hotmail.com
Website: http://www.jagarchive.com/Aerogirl/main.html
Rating: PG-13 (language, implied sexual situations)
Classification: crossover, romance
Spoilers: for The West Wing: "Two Cathedrals," "The
Indians in the 
Lobby," 
"Posse Comitatus"
	for JAG: "Contemptuous Words," "Boomerang," "Enemy
Below"

Summary: At a time when very little in her life makes
sense, C.J. Cregg 
finds an unlikely yet powerful bond with a
naval-aviator-turned-lawyer 
named 
Harmon Rabb.

Disclaimer: Mr. B, I know you're used to me swiping
your characters, so 
one 
more time can't hurt, right?  Mr. Sorkin, since this
is the first time 
I've 
twisted your characters around to fit my designs, I
promise to be kind.  
Just take it as a compliment.  Please.

Special thanks to Valerie, whose calm advice and
expertise in matters 
both 
technical and literary pulled me through this whole
mess.  I owe you 
big 
time, hon.

Author's Notes: Dear God, I can't believe I actually
wrote this story.  
The 
idea started as something of a whim, but after a
couple of e-mail 
discussions, it began to monopolize my fanfic muses. 
(Thanks a lot, 
Celli.) 
  It's my first voyage into the world of West Wing
fic, and I realize 
how 
little that show has in common with JAG, so bear with
me while I lay 
out 
some ground rules...

First off, this story is set in the summer of 2002,
which puts it 
between 
West Wing's third and fourth seasons, and between
JAG's seventh and 
eighth 
seasons.  It's going to deal heavily in the events of
both shows' 
season 
finales, so a passing familiarity with one or both
might be helpful.  
As a 
warning to the dedicated JAG shippers out there: this
story is not 
going to 
have that much actual Harm-and-Mac time.  Yes, it's
still 
shipper-friendly, 
but the primary interactions here will be between Harm
and C.J., and 
there 
may be some elements of that relationship that you
won't like.  Just 
trust 
me and keep reading.  In general, the format leans
more toward West 
Wing 
than it does JAG - I'm trying to write Harm as he
might appear in a 
West 
Wing-type world.  It's something of an experiment, so
if you don't 
adore it, 
don't be crushed.  I'll return to my
regularly-scheduled shipper fic 
soon 
enough.  On with the show...


“Clearing Skies”
(A JAG/The West Wing crossover)

Monday
June 17, 2002
The West Wing

	There was someone standing in the doorway of her
office.

	C.J. was well aware of the fact, but she didn't
immediately glance up 
from 
her computer.  At five minutes before nine a.m., her
schedule was 
already 
packed, and if this visitor had had something
important to say, he or 
she 
would have already started talking.  That was the way
it worked around 
here. 
  When approximately thirty seconds had passed with no
announcement, 
C.J. 
finally looked over her glasses at the young woman. 
"Donna, I don't 
mean to 
be rude, but isn't Josh's doorway your normal hovering
position?"

	"He's on the Hill this morning.  Besides, he wouldn't
fully appreciate 
the 
kind of information I have to offer."  Donna tossed
her blond hair with 
a 
conspiratorial look.  "There's a hot-looking sailor in
the lobby."

	C.J. looked at her impassively for about half a
second, then shook her 
head.  "Forget it."

	This wasn't the response Donna had been expecting, so
it threw her off 
stride.  "Forget what?"

	"The last time my day started out with a line about
someone in the 
lobby, I 
ended up spending the day before Thanksgiving
babysitting a pair of 
Indians."

	"Ironic..."

	"Don't start."  C.J. stood up from her desk and began
to search the 
shelf 
for a file.  Donna wasn't dissuaded in the least.

	"Anyway, I'm serious about this one."

	"A sailor in the lobby?"

	"A hot-looking one.  Trust me, you'd agree."

	"Because you and I always share the same taste in
men," she suggested 
dryly.

	Donna pouted.  "You're ruining my fun.  I don't have
the guts to ask 
him 
why he's here."

	C.J. gave up looking for the file and threw up her
hands, mildly 
exasperated.  "Donna, I don't have time for this.  I
have a meeting in 
five 
minutes."

	"Who with?"

	She racked her brain.  If that damn file had been
here like it was 
supposed 
to be, she'd have been able to prepare before now, and
this wouldn't 
have 
felt like such a trick question.  "With ... with..."

	"With one of the Judge Advocates from the Navy's war
crimes tribunal 
task 
force," Carol answered smoothly, entering the office
and dropping the 
requisite file onto the desk.  "Leo wanted a firsthand
update before 
the 
President commented about it in his speech, remember?"

	"Leo also wanted to display his Air Force feathers
and bitch about the 
Navy 
some more."  C.J. stopped herself as she made the
connection.  "Hold 
up.  My 
meeting's with a naval officer?"

	Her assistant glanced down at the file to confirm. 
"Commander Harmon 
Rabb."

	"The hot-looking sailor in the lobby?" Donna asked
hopefully.

"You thought so too?"

	"Oh, for Christ's sake, Laverne and Shirley." C.J.
rolled her eyes.  
"I'm 
not sure anyone with a name like 'Harmon Rabb' can be
classified as 
hot."

	"You haven't seen him yet, C.J."  Carol smiled. 
"You'll like him.  
Trust 
me."

	C.J. looked suspiciously from one to the other,
mystified by their 
enthusiasm.  "I don't know where you two got the idea
that you know my 
type. 
  I'm not sure I even have a type anymore."

	"You want me to bring him back here?" Carol asked,
making a few notes 
on 
her boss's blotter.

	"No, I'll go get him.  Cleaning drool off a uniform
is tough."  She 
brushed 
past the two assistants, shaking her head, and strode
through the busy 
hallways toward the main lobby.

	Finding a naval officer in a busy room was typically
a simple task, 
one 
made even simpler in the summertime.  C.J. idly
wondered what genius 
had 
decided that white uniforms were a good idea.  The
Navy certainly 
seemed to 
have gotten the short end of the dress-code stick. 
When her gaze fell 
on 
the only man wearing such a uniform, however, she
rapidly amended that 
opinion.

	He was probably about her age, with dark hair cropped
short and eyes 
that 
defined a new shade of blue-green.  Sitting
ramrod-straight in a chair 
against the wall, he looked both at ease and alert at
the same time.  
Handsome, certainly, but she didn't immediately see
what had turned 
Donna 
and Carol into instant groupies.  She shrugged
inwardly and started to 
cross 
the foyer.

	"Commander Rabb?"

	The commander stood up, moving to meet her - and
suddenly she 
understood 
why the other women had been so insistent.  She was
quite accustomed to 
her 
role as the 'tall girl'.  This was the first time in
recent memory that 
she'd actually had to look _up_ at someone.

	"Yes, ma'am," he answered politely, shaking the hand
she extended to 
him.

	"I'm C.J. Cregg, White House press secretary.  Thanks
for coming."

	"My pleasure."  His impressive smile faded slightly
as an expression 
of 
puzzlement flitted across her features.  "Is something
wrong?"

	"No, I'm just surprised.  You're a Judge Advocate -
that's code for 
lawyer, 
isn't it?"

	"Yes, ma'am."

	She glanced down at the gold wings that gleamed over
his breast 
pocket, 
hoping to keep from making a fool of herself.  "And
apparently a pilot, 
as 
well?"

	A hint of the smile returned, and she found herself
just a little 
dazzled.  
"It's a long story, ma'am."

	"If we have time later, I'd like to hear it."  The
words were out of 
her 
mouth before she could rethink them, but she recovered
quickly.  
Nobody, not 
even a hot-looking sailor, was going to knock her off
balance this 
early in 
the week.  "Let's talk in the Roosevelt Room.  If
you'll follow me..."

	She led him past the communications bullpen,
surreptitiously watching 
his 
reactions to the controlled chaos around them. 
Visitors' impressions 
of the 
West Wing were fascinating to study: it was easy to
tell a first-time 
visitor, just from the sheer awe that invariably
radiated from the 
person.  
This particular visitor was hard to read - his
expression didn't change 
at 
all - but eventually she caught his eyes flicking back
and forth, 
taking in 
their surroundings.  *Gotcha,* she thought.

	"Have you ever been in the West Wing before?" she
inquired pleasantly.

	"No, ma'am.  The closest I've been is the Rose
Garden, for an awards 
ceremony."

	"Then maybe we've crossed paths before?"

	"Actually, it was during the previous administration.
 I wasn't able 
to 
stay for the reception, so I've probably seen less of
the White House 
than 
the average tourist."

	As they reached the Roosevelt Room, she opened the
door and waved him 
in.  
"Who was getting the award?"

	"I was."  He was already moving into the room as he
said it, so he 
didn't 
see her eyebrows rise in restrained disbelief.

	"I think I'd like to hear that story, too," she
commented, then 
briskly 
moved on to business, taking a seat at the table. 
"Listen, this isn't 
a big 
deal.  It's really more of a formality than anything
else.  As you 
probably 
know, the President is addressing a joint session of
Congress in two 
days, 
and one of the topics is the state of our detainees at
Guantanamo Bay.  
Leo 
McGarry had a few questions about the upcoming
tribunals that he'd like 
to 
have officially answered before the final draft of the
speech is 
written."

	"Well, I'll do my best to give you the most
official-sounding answers 
I 
can," Commander Rabb replied with a smile, setting his
briefcase and 
cover 
down on the table.

	"I can tell you're going to fit in just fine around
here.  Okay, first 
off. 
  What kind of progress has the task force made?"

	"We've got a framework in place for the basic
procedure.  Preliminary 
hearings are still set for the beginning of October." 
He paused, 
noticing 
her slight wince.  "Is there a problem?"

	"Not with the actual hearings - the DoD has our
complete support on 
that 
front.  It's just the timing."  C.J. sighed, folding
her hands atop her 
notebook.  "I don't think there's way to put this
delicately, so I'm 
just 
going to say it.  This coming September is going to be
a complicated 
time.  
The one-year anniversary of the attacks will bring to
the surface a lot 
of 
emotion that people really haven't had time to bury
yet.  If an entire 
year 
passes and no one has been convicted..."

	"Ma'am, none of the detainees at Gitmo was on board
an airliner on 
September 11th," the commander pointed out quietly.

	"I understand that, but there's a very real
connection.  We'd like to 
be 
able to have at least a start on the tribunals before
September, so 
that the 
public can see that someone is being held
accountable."

	"I see."  He watched her impassively.  "May I ask a
somewhat blunt 
question?"

	A little surprised, she only shrugged.  "Blunt
questions are all I 
usually 
get."

	"Is there a concern that starting the tribunals in
October might be 
too 
late for any PR benefits to affect the November
elections?"

	C.J. narrowed her eyes.  This guy played hardball. 
After three years 
in 
front of the press corps, though, she wasn't about to
blink.  "Well, 
that is 
blunt, so I'll respond in kind.  I don't believe that
the tribunals are 
likely to have an appreciable effect on the
President's chances for 
reelection, but we'd certainly like to see some
resolution on this 
issue 
while we're all still in the White House."

	"You don't expect to win reelection?"

	"Are you normally this aggressive, Commander, or am I
just lucky?"

	Abruptly he softened, offering a self-deprecating
smile.  "My 
apologies, 
ma'am.  I guess you can take the lawyer out of the
courtroom, but - "

	"I don't believe that for a minute.  I think you say
exactly what you 
want 
to say just about every day of your life.  Thing is,
my M.O. is awfully 
similar."  She met his gaze, challenging.  "I fully
expect to not only 
win 
reelection, but to win it in a walk.  If you repeat
that to anyone with 
a 
microphone, I know many, many ways of making you very
sorry.  But 
that's not 
the topic at hand.  Nine months ago, the American
people got 
collectively 
sucker-punched, and we think it's time to start
hitting back.  So why 
can't 
we start holding these guys up to the law right now? 
Why do we have to 
wait 
until October?  Why do we even have to wait until next
week?"

	"Well, quite frankly, because this is an entirely new
procedure of 
unparalleled magnitude.  We're racking our brains for
precedent, and 
like 
usual, we're tripping over our own red tape.  If we
push to start the 
tribunals any earlier, Headquarters will have a hard
time getting 
prepared, 
and something might get missed.  We just want to make
sure it's done 
right.  
That's my only objection."

	"But will you raise our concerns with your
superiors?"

	He merely tipped his head in acknowledgement.  "I
never ignore a 
directive 
from the White House."

	"All right.  Then I suppose all I need is a way to
argue that point 
and 
sound confident.  There are a lot of people accusing
us of stalling the 
issue, and they've got rather loud voices.  What can
the President tell 
Congress Wednesday night to reassure them?"

	Rabb considered the question carefully.  Finally, he
replied, "He can 
tell 
them that the enemies of the United States will not
now, nor will they 
ever, 
escape the reach of justice.  The legal branch of the
armed forces 
rarely 
gets the opportunity to directly act in defense of the
country, but I 
can 
assure you that every one of us is more than ready to
perform our 
duties.  
That much is a certainty."

	Both the words and the fire behind them made an
impact, and C.J. 
nodded 
resolutely.  "Commander, your candor is refreshing, to
say the least."

	"That's probably the kindest possible way to put it,
ma'am."

	"The 'ma'am' thing really isn't necessary.  Around
here, we're lucky 
to get 
anything above 'hey, you.' "

	"I doubt that, but I can be flexible.  Would you
prefer Ms. Cregg?"

	"I'd prefer C.J., actually."

	Instantly she regretted making the suggestion.  What
the hell was she 
trying to do here?  Make friends?  She wasn't likely
to ever see him 
again.  
Fortunately, he wasn't put off.  "Fair enough.  I'm
Harm."

	"I think we're done here, but if you've got a few
minutes, I could 
show you 
around."

	Harm smiled again - and this time she felt that he
was actually 
smiling 
_at_ her, not just in her direction.  "I'd like that."

	They roamed the halls for a while, as C.J. offered
her best account of 
the 
history of the building.  The naval officer listened
intently, with a 
kind 
of decorum born of years spent in the service.  He
wore the uniform for 
all 
the right reasons, she saw.  He had a deep respect,
almost a reverence, 
for 
this place and what it represented.  She found herself
feeling a touch 
of 
guilt for the indifference she so often displayed as
she flew through 
six 
critical tasks at once.  Her first reaction was to
push it aside.  Her 
second reaction was to decide that this man must have
a fascinating 
history 
of his own.

	"Thank you for the tour," Harm said as they returned
to the lobby.  
"I'm 
sure you have a number of other important things you
need to get to."

	She glanced at her watch.  "Yeah, like my morning
briefing, 
unfortunately."

	"Well, if you need to follow up on what we discussed,
all my numbers 
are on 
here.  The pager's been on the fritz lately, so if you
can't find me at 
the 
office, your best bet is my cell phone."  He held out
a business card, 
and 
she was careful to take it without brushing his
fingers.

	"You do owe me a couple of stories," she reminded
him, tilting her 
head 
toward his wings.  In response, he gestured toward the
card in her 
hand.

	"That's an acceptable reason to call, too.  But
you're the one with 
the 
crazy schedule, so I'll leave it to you.  It was a
pleasure meeting 
you, 
C.J."

	"You, too."  She watched him put on his cover -
perfectly straight on 
the 
first try - and stride through the doors.  A Marine
guard saluted as he 
passed, and he returned it automatically.  So much of
the military way 
of 
life seemed like that, she thought.  Automatic, rigid,
without a second 
thought.  But he wasn't entirely like that.  He'd
spent most of their 
meeting arguing with her, which wasn't usually the way
to get a free 
tour 
out of her.  But she'd given it to him anyway.  What
was it about him?

	It wasn't until she was most of the way back to her
office that she 
was 
able to put a label on it, and when the realization
came, it stopped 
her 
cold.  The military posture, the sense of being calm
yet alert at all 
times, 
the way that he challenged her at every turn ... hell,
even his height 
...

	After a split-second, she resumed walking, setting a
course for her 
assistant's desk.

	Carol heard her approach, as she always did.  "CBS
wants a minute to 
talk 
about Wednesday after the briefing," she reported. 
Receiving no reply, 
she 
looked up.  "What?  Did the hunk turn out to be an
idiot?"

	"Hardly."  C.J. folded her arms across her chest,
shaking her head.  
"You 
were so sure I'd like him."

	"Well, yeah."

	"Why?"

	She shrugged.  "I don't know."

	"Carol."

	"I really don't."

	"It didn't cross your mind at any point that the
commander might 
remind me 
of someone?"

	After a moment of bewilderment, understanding flooded
Carol's 
features.  "I 
didn't really think he looked that much like - "

	"He does to me.  His entire bearing screams 'Simon'
in flashing red 
letters, and I can't believe you don't see that."

	"I'm sorry.  I wasn't thinking."

	"It's all right.  Briefing starts in ten?"

	"Yeah.  I'm just pulling up the market summaries for
you."

	"Okay.  Give me five minutes."  C.J. stepped into her
office and 
closed the 
door, attempting to regain her equilibrium.  Carol was
probably the 
only 
person on staff who had even an inkling of how deep
her emotions ran on 
the 
subject of Simon Donovan.  The Secret Service agent
who'd protected her 
during the threats of the past spring had been well
known among the 
staff.  
They'd all gotten accustomed to hearing his calm, wry
voice in the 
halls, 
quietly taking all the misdirected frustration she'd
thrown at him.  
They'd 
all expected him to leave as quietly as he'd come once
the threat had 
passed.  None of them had expected to be attending his
funeral.

	A robbery, Agent Butterfield had told her.  A
convenience store and a 
couple of scared, stupid kids.  They'd found Simon
with a rose lying 
next to 
his hand, a casualty of duty and a victim of being in
the wrong place 
at the 
worst possible time.  A few people had wondered who
the rose might have 
been 
for, but she had no intention of enlightening them.

	C.J. looked down at the business card in her hand,
holding it over the 
wastebasket for a long minute.  She didn't need to go
through this.  
She 
didn't need to dredge up all the questions she'd
buried over the past 
few 
weeks.  There were too many other things to worry
about.

	*There are always too many other things to worry
about,* part of her 
mind 
pointed out.  *That's why you keep pushing it aside. 
It isn't going to 
go 
away on its own, no matter how long you avoid it.*

	It had been most of four years since she last had a
real friend - 
someone 
to talk to who didn't live and breathe this job the
way she did.  Maybe 
a 
Navy lawyer was as good a distraction as any.

	Dropping the card into her desk drawer, she picked up
her notebook and 
started toward the pressroom.  Before anything else,
she had an 
economic 
crisis, a new medical research bill, and a possible
autoworkers' strike 
to 
brief.


****************


Tuesday
JAG Headquarters

	"You're looking awfully chipper today.  What do you
have up your 
sleeve?"

	Harm raised his hands in surrender.  "Not a thing. 
I'm just convinced 
of 
my client's innocence."

	"Sure you are."  Sarah Mackenzie folded her arms and
stared her 
partner 
down as they crossed the bullpen.  "Come on.  Not even
a clue?  For 
your 
very best friend?"

	"For my very best friend, certainly.  Just not while
she's also 
playing the 
role of lead prosecutor."

	"Ah, well.  I had to try."  Undaunted, Mac breezed
past him and into 
her 
office.  Harm only shook his head and continued on to
his own office.

	The past few weeks had been a struggle for both of
them, and for the 
entire 
staff.  Once the immediate crisis in the Arabian Sea
had passed, they'd 
all 
managed to relax - perhaps too much.  Certainly they
hadn't been 
prepared 
for the bombshell that had shattered their dear
friend's life only a 
few 
days later.  Now that Bud was back at home, beginning
an arduous 
rehabilitation process, everyone was going above and
beyond to make 
everything appear normal - whatever that word meant
anymore.

	One of the bastions of normalcy at JAG HQ,
apparently, was the 
relationship 
between its top attorneys.  It felt as if the rest of
the staff was 
looking 
to Harm and Mac to maintain the expected balance in
the office.  As a 
result, despite the closeness they'd found during
their time in 
Afghanistan, 
something seemed to be keeping them in a perpetual
holding pattern, 
preventing any further evolution.  And it was driving
him nuts.

	Harm sat down at his desk and attempted to focus on
the report that 
Lieutenant Singer had recently delivered.  It was
obsessively detailed, 
as 
usual.  He was still searching for actual evidence in
the fourteen-page 
document when his phone rang, bringing a welcome
distraction.

	"Commander Rabb."

	"Commander, this is C.J. Cregg.  I hope I'm not
disturbing you."

	"Far from it, believe me," he responded, a little
surprised.  He 
hadn't 
really expected to hear from her again.  "Looking for
a reciprocal tour 
of 
our action-packed office?"

	Her laugh was short, but genuine.  "Thanks, but I'm
fine."

	"What can I do for you, then?  If you need additional
information for 
the 
speech, you're running short on time.  It's tomorrow
night, isn't it?"

	"Actually, I wasn't calling about the speech.  This
is on another 
matter."  
There was a pause on the line as she considered her
approach.  "I 
realize 
that this may be a somewhat odd request, but I think
I'd like to hear 
some 
of those stories you alluded to yesterday.  I was
wondering if, 
possibly, 
you'd be willing to meet after work to discuss them
sometime."

	There wasn't an immediate response, and she rushed
ahead.  "Of course, 
if 
you're uncomfortable with the idea - "

	"No, not at all.  Would you hold on for just a
moment?"  Harm covered 
the 
receiver and called out to Singer as she passed by his
door.  
"Lieutenant, a 
minute, please?  This was supposed to be a summary,
not the history of 
Western civilization.  Could you clean it up so that I
can find the 
ballistics report without a compass?  Thank you. 
Dismissed."  As the 
junior 
officer disappeared around the corner, he returned to
the phone.  "I'm 
sorry, I had to get some information."

	"No, it's all right.  Like I said, I know this is an
odd thing to 
ask."

	"I was just thinking that it doesn't sound odd at
all.  It just sounds 
like 
a normal - "

	"Date?  No, that's not where I was going with it.  I
mean, trust me, 
I'm 
not anywhere near prepared to do anything even
resembling a date."

	He blinked, starting to get confused.  "Okay, I stand
corrected."

	"Wait, I didn't mean to be so vehement.  What I mean
is, this is a 
purely 
self-serving request.  I could really use a few hours
away from my job, 
and 
my job doesn't really allow for many opportunities to
talk to anyone 
outside 
of ... well, my job.  I would just like to have an
evening of 
intelligent 
conversation with a person who doesn't live and die by
the exit polls 
in 
Peoria.  That's all I'm proposing.  Take it or leave
it."

	Harm hesitated for a moment, trying to weigh the
consequences of his 
answer.  After tossing a brief glance in the direction
of Mac's office, 
he 
replied finally, "All right.  You've got a deal."

	She hadn't really expected him to agree, so it took
her a moment to 
decide 
how to proceed.  "Okay, then.  Are you free Thursday?"

	"I am.  Are you sure you're going to be?"

	"I'm never sure, but since the speech will be over, I
ought to be able 
to 
escape before too late.  Say eight o'clock?"

	"That ought to work.  I don't suppose you've already
thought of a 
location?"

	"As a matter of fact, no, but thinking on my feet is
one of the things 
I 
get paid to do.  Do you know Café Maria on Columbus
Avenue?"

	"Sure, I used to live around there.  I was addicted
to their hazelnut 
coffee."

	"It's their Thursday special.  I told you I think on
my feet."

	"And you do it well.  So, Café Maria on Thursday
night?"

	"Sounds good.  I really appreciate this."

	"I'll look forward to it as well.  Good luck with the
speech."

	"Thanks.  See you then."

	Harm hung up the phone, then stared at it for a
while.  What exactly 
had he 
just agreed to?  She'd gone out of her way to explain
the non-date 
status of 
this meeting.  Then what was it?  Make new friends
week?  She was 
certainly 
an interesting person.  Bold, but in a refreshing,
non-threatening way.  
*So 
what the hell does she want with me?*

	At last, he decided that it was nothing more than
what they'd 
outlined: a 
friendly cup of coffee between adults who admittedly
had next to 
nothing in 
common.  If nothing else, it would be a break in his
routine, and his 
routine could definitely use a break.  Making a note
in his weekly 
calendar, 
he turned his attention back to his computer.


** End Part 1/7 **


*****************
(start Part Two)

Thursday
Café Maria

	C.J. swung her car into the first available parking
space and hurried 
toward the door of the coffeehouse.  Twenty-four
minutes past eight.  
Damn.  
She'd been on her way out at seven forty-five, but
Toby had cornered 
her 
with a 'quick' question about subsidies for soybean
farmers, and Toby's 
questions were never quick.  Now she was just hoping
that her companion 
hadn't already given up on her and left.

	When she reached for the door, though, another hand
shot out to grab 
it - 
and she was greeted by a pair of piercing eyes that,
once again, she 
had to 
look up to meet.  "Good timing," Harm observed,
tucking his cover under 
his 
arm and holding the door open.  "I was just rehearsing
my apology for 
being 
late."

	"Looks like we can just chalk it up to demanding
careers."  C.J. 
stepped 
inside and located a suitable table near the corner. 
"I wouldn't have 
expected lawyers to have to work so late, though."

	"I had to meet with a client.  Trial's making him
nervous, so I have 
to 
continually keep reassuring him that he's not
screwed."

	"What's the charge?"

	"Murder."

	She blinked.  "Well, I can see why he might be
nervous about that."

	"Yeah.  The kid's twenty-four years old, and the
security report 
alleges 
that he got into an argument with a fellow squad
member and attacked 
him 
outside their barracks."

	"Did he do it?"

	He lifted an eyebrow.  "If I knew, do I you really
think I'd tell 
you?"

	"I don't think you'd tell me.  But you do know, don't
you?"

	"Yes, I do."

That line of conversation effectively ended as he
ordered their coffees 
from 
a passing waiter.  C.J. watched him for a moment,
sizing him up again.  
"Law 
is probably one of the few professions I could never
picture myself 
in."

"Really?  I would've expected the West Wing to be full
of lawyers."

"Oh, it is, but they're mostly former corporate types.
 I'd be 
surprised if 
any of them had ever been near a murder case.  No,
it's the whole 
concept of 
trying to defend a person whom you know is guilty.  I
couldn't handle 
that."

"I'm not too fond of it myself, but I understand the
fundamental 
necessity 
of it.  Fortunately, the situation doesn't come up all
that often."  
Harm 
leaned back in his chair.  "So what path does one take
to get to the 
White 
House press secretary's office, if law school is out
of the question?"

"A lot of luck, mostly.  I escaped the Midwest to go
to Berkeley, and I 
graduated with no clear idea of where I was going.  I
did a little work 
for 
some political action committees, but eventually I
found myself doing 
PR for 
film studios in L.A., and although the money was good,
I can't say I 
was too 
sorry to leave when the Bartlet campaign came
calling."

He shook his head.  "I'm having a hard time picturing
you in the 
Hollywood 
lifestyle."

Instinctively, she bristled.  Her PR work wasn't
something she was 
particularly proud of, but it had been a part of her
life, and she 
wasn't 
about to let anyone cut her down because of it. 
"Why's that?  Do you 
have 
any firsthand experience with 'the Hollywood
lifestyle?' "

In response, she received a sardonic grin.  "Dated a
producer for a 
year and 
a half.  You have about as much in common with her as
I do with the 
Queen of 
England."

She began to relax.  "I see.  Producers are an
interesting bunch."

"That's one way to put it."  Their coffees arrived,
and he took a sip 
of his 
before continuing.  "It sounds like you escaped _to_
California 
somewhere 
around the time I was escaping _from_ it."

"You're from out west?"

He nodded.  "Around San Diego.  I went to high school
in La Jolla."

"Nice area."

"Unless you're sixteen and can't wait to get out,
sure."  He smiled 
ruefully.

"You knew even then that you wanted to join the Navy?"

"I knew that from the time I was five.  It's the
family business, such 
as it 
is."

"So do you come from a line of Navy lawyers, or Navy
fliers?"

He folded his arms and leaned on the table.  "What do
you think?"

"I'd say fliers."

"You'd be right."

She swirled the straw around in her coffee, idly
wondering why he 
didn't 
volunteer any further information.  "I feel like I
don't understand the 
military perspective as well as maybe I should.  We've
had a fairly 
smooth 
ride with the Pentagon for most of the term, but
sometimes I think your 
bosses' opinions about my boss are colored by the fact
that he doesn't 
have 
a military background."

"I sense a personal question coming on."

"Wait for it."  C.J. shot him a stern look, but her
eyes twinkled.  
"Seriously.  Does it bother you that the President
never served?"

"Not particularly.  I don't think everyone in this
world is meant to 
wear a 
uniform."

"But he's your commander-in-chief," she persisted.

He shrugged.  "Politics and the military don't always
fit all that well 
together.  I approve of the way he's handled the
recent conflicts, and 
they 
couldn't have chosen a finer officer to advise him
than Admiral 
Fitzwallace."

"Hypothetically, though, if he ordered you to do
something that you 
thought 
was ill-advised ... you know, because of a lack of
experience or 
understanding of the situation ..."

"I'd still do it.  Orders are orders.  That's the only
way the whole 
thing 
works."

She had a hard time believing that anything this
critical could be so 
black 
and white.  "There's been a lot of concern about the
direction of our 
efforts in Afghanistan," she said carefully.  "People
are afraid that 
the 
war on terror could turn into another Vietnam, that a
conflict could 
arise 
between political and military objectives.  Doesn't
that worry you?"

When she looked up, the coldness in his eyes shocked
her into silence.  
"You 
don't want me to start in on Vietnam right now," he
replied quietly.  
"I'm 
not really into finger-pointing on this topic, but
whatever happened 
over 
there cost me my father.  And I don't think you really
want to go there 
tonight."

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing how else to
respond.  "I'll back up 
a 
little.  But I really am interested in what you think
of the 
President."

"Why?"

"Because it's an election year," she shot back
immediately.  "No, 
really.  I 
almost never talk to a person who doesn't have some
kind of agenda, and 
I 
get the feeling that you might just be one of the few
honest people 
left in 
Washington.  So would you humor me?"

Harm spread his hands in an expansive gesture.  "I
have nothing but 
respect 
for the President."

"You didn't vote for him, did you?"

"Come on, how many card-carrying Democrats are there
in the armed 
forces?"

She studied him, narrowing her eyes.  She knew when
she was getting the 
run-around.  "You're not going to tell me, are you? 
Even if you hated 
everything about him, you'd just sit there and not say
a word."

"I don't hate anything about him."

"But if you're as conservative as you claim, you must
dislike some of 
his 
policies."

He merely fixed her with a cool expression and recited
a well-worn 
phrase.  
"Public criticism of my commanding officers is
prohibited under the 
Uniform 
Code of Military Justice."  Almost as an afterthought,
he rolled his 
eyes.  
"I should know, after my run-in with the last
commander-in-chief."

She decided not to pursue that comment for the moment.
 "I'm sure the 
ACLU 
loves it when you guys prosecute that one."

"Depends on who's in the Oval Office at the time."

This was starting to get frustrating.  The more he
dodged, the greater 
her 
instinct to press the issue became.  "Harm," she
began, sharply 
catching his 
attention.  "This isn't a state secret here, all
right?  I just want to 
know 
what you think.  How wrong could that be?  It's just
you and me."

He looked at her in disbelief.  " 'Just' you?  C.J.,
you're the press 
secretary.  I can't imagine a more dangerous
conversation."

"You don't think I can keep the opinions of a casual
acquaintance to 
myself?" she demanded defensively.  "You think I'm
going to waltz into 
the 
briefing room tomorrow and give your sound bites to
the New York Times?  
You 
have no idea how well I keep secrets, Commander."

"I'm sorry.  That was uncalled for."  He touched her
arm, stalling some 
of 
her anger.  "But I can't tell you what I think of your
boss's defense 
budget 
or his stance on Roe v. Wade.  Not because of who you
are, but because 
of 
who _I_ am.  I really am sorry."

Something about those earnest yet unyielding eyes sent
her into another 
maelstrom of memories, and she had to mentally shake
herself out of it.  
"I'm sorry, too.  I think some subconscious part of my
brain is trying 
to 
sabotage this - whatever it is - because every so
often, you remind me 
of 
someone.  A lot, in some cases."

She half-expected that explanation to fall flat, but
instead he nodded 
in 
understanding.  "I know that feeling.  Sometime I'll
tell you how I met 
my 
partner - "

"I got him killed," she blurted out, surprising both
of them.  "The 
person 
you remind me of.  Indirectly, he's dead because of
me."

Immediately she was horrified at herself for dropping
that kind of news 
on a 
near-stranger.  It wasn't even something that she'd
consciously 
admitted to 
herself, but it was the way she felt.  He would have
been justified in 
running the other way after something like this ...

... but he didn't.  Instead, there was something
familiar in his 
expression. 
  "Unfortunately, I know that feeling, too," he
replied quietly.

She stared at him.  "Are you serious?"

He sighed.  "Maybe it's time I explained the story of
why I'm a lawyer 
with 
wings."

She listened as he told her about the accident that
had ended his 
flying 
career and the life of a fellow aviator, about how his
search for a new 
life 
had eventually led him to his position at JAG. 
Somehow, as painful as 
it 
sounded, hearing that gave her comfort.  If he could
shoulder that kind 
of 
guilt and still move on, maybe there was some hope for
her after all.

Abruptly, he pulled himself back to the present.  "I
apologize.  I'm 
sure 
the last thing you were looking for tonight was a sob
story.  
Especially 
since it sounds like you've got enough to deal with on
your own."

"Actually, I was just thinking that it sounded more
like a success 
story to 
me.  And regardless of what I was looking for tonight,
I think maybe 
this 
was exactly what I needed.  Because of what I'm
dealing with on my 
own."

"If you want to talk about it, it seems like we've
already established 
a 
ground rule of nothing off-limits."

She drew a deep breath.  "It's not a very complex
issue.  This spring I 
received a number of emails threatening my life.  I
had a Secret 
Service 
agent assigned to me for almost a month, and we got to
be pretty close.  
Last month, we accompanied the President to New York
City for an event, 
and 
that night they arrested the man who'd been
threatening me.  
Unfortunately, 
Simon - Agent Donovan - walked into a convenience
store holdup that 
same 
night, and the robbers shot him."

Once it was out, the tale lifted some of the weight
from her shoulders.  
"Next to what you just told me, it's practically
nothing, but that's 
what 
happened."

"It's not nothing," Harm told her, his voice gravely
serious.  "But I 
don't 
understand how it could be your fault."

"I tried to tell him not to come to New York.  He
wouldn't have been 
there 
at all if it hadn't been for me - "

"You mean, if he hadn't been doing his job?"  He shook
his head.  
"C.J., I 
don't know if I'm qualified to comment on Secret
Service procedure, but 
I 
can tell you what it means to have a duty to uphold. 
He would have 
been 
there no matter what, regardless of how close he did
or didn't get to 
you.  
It has nothing to do with the reasons he was killed. 
I can promise you 
that."

"I know.  I mean, on some level I know, but sometimes
..."  She 
attempted a 
wan smile.  "I don't know if I can believe all that
just yet, but I 
appreciate you saying it nonetheless."

He drained his coffee cup before speaking again.  "It
seems to me that 
despite some rather impressive political divergences,
the two of us 
might 
have more in common than I'd expected."

"How do you figure?"

"You drove up in a '65 Mustang, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I had to pay a fortune to get it shipped here
from L.A., but I 
do 
love that car.  Your point?"

"I was in love with my '68 Corvette - drove it for
almost ten years 
before 
it was stolen.  I spent half of last year and a hell
of a lot of money 
to 
restore another one."  He flashed a grin, and she felt
some of that 
tension 
she'd been unable to shake finally begin to ease. 
"Mac teased me 
mercilessly about it."

"Mac is?"

"My partner, Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie."  He
paused a moment, 
reconsidering.  "It's funny.  I always refer to her as
my partner, even 
though we don't often work together anymore.  I guess
'best friend' is 
probably a more accurate description.  We've been
getting each other in 
and 
out of trouble for almost six years now."

	At her look of disbelief, his lips twisted wryly.  "I
know.  It makes 
me 
feel old just to say it."

	"No, I was just surprised to hear that anybody in the
Navy stayed in 
one 
place for six years."

	"Hey, I'm a lawyer, remember?  I'm well-versed in the
concept of 
rolling 
with the punches."  He shrugged.  "What about you?  I
know you expect 
your 
boss to win reelection, but if for some reason he
doesn't, do you know 
what 
you'll do next?"

	"I'm trying pretty hard not to think about it at the
moment.  Ask me 
again 
in a couple of months, after the convention."

	"Whatever you say.  At any rate, I imagine there are
a number of 
groups out 
there who'd kill to have you running point for them."

	"You don't know me well enough to mean that," she
countered, daring 
him.

	"No, I suppose I don't.  But I tend to trust my first
impressions."

	"And your first impression of tonight is?"

	"That you're an enjoyable conversationalist, and that
I wouldn't mind 
repeating tonight in the future.  Unless your
Thursdays are booked up."

	Strangely flattered, she only shook her head.  "I
think I could manage 
another jailbreak next week.  Same time, same
channel?"

	"I'll be here.  Hopefully closer to the actual
specified time, but no 
promises."

	"That goes for me as well.  Have a good week."

	"You, too."


********************


Thursday
June 27, 2002
The West Wing

	"Josh!"

	Josh's head swung around, attempting to locate the
voice that had just 
yelled his name.  "What?"

	C.J. whacked him lightly with a folder, drawing his
attention.  "The 
natives are getting restless."

	"Which ones?  AP?"

	"It doesn't matter which ones - they'll all get on
the scent 
eventually.  
You've got to let me tell them something."

	"All right, tell them what you know."

	"See, that would be the problem, because what I know
is approximately 
nothing."  She swiftly blocked his doorway before he
could escape into 
his 
office.  "The new Qumari defense minister isn't
staying quiet.  He's 
already 
told everyone who'll listen exactly how the attack on
Shareef likely 
took 
place, and even though no one wants to be the first
one to say 
anything, 
they're all going to assume we had something to do
with it."

	"You don't know that."

	"Josh, give me some freaking credit here!  It's been
over a month, 
which is 
way longer than we could reasonably have hoped to keep
this under 
wraps.  
But things are eventually going to get hot, and I'd
like to be 
prepared."

	"Look, when Leo tells me what our position is, I'll
tell you, and then 
we'll go from there.  I can't do any better than that.
 We're all set 
for 
the thing in Atlanta on Friday?"

	"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, knowing she wouldn't get
anything further 
out 
of him.

	"This is what I love about you, C.J.  You're such a
ray of light in 
this 
office."

	"Josh, if you don't drop the sarcasm right now, I'm
going to tell Amy 
that 
you recommended the Families First Initiative."

	"I'm impervious to threats, but I'll shut up anyway,
just to be a nice 
guy."  When she allowed him access to his office once
again, Josh moved 
inside, but quickly stuck his head back out into the
hallway.  "Hey, 
C.J., 
what was the name of that officer you met with last
week?"

	She turned back, wary of the question.  "About the
Al-Qaeda tribunals?  
Rabb.  Commander Harmon Rabb.  Why?"

	"No big deal.  I just thought he was more of an
admin-type officer."

	"What makes you think otherwise now?"

	"Well, for one thing, we're apparently giving him
some kind of 
commendation 
for combat service."  He tossed the file toward her,
and she skimmed 
it.

	*What the hell?*

	"Do you need this?" she asked, waving toward the
file.

	He shrugged.  "Nah, I don't know why I got it in the
first place.  
Help 
yourself."

	"Thanks.  I'll be in my office if you need me."

	"I always need you, C.J. ..."

	Rolling her eyes, she strode toward her office and
sat down at the 
computer.  Clearly there was more to this particular
commander than met 
the 
eye.  Fortunately, information was her trade.  She had
most of four 
hours 
before their scheduled meeting, and she fully intended
to use the time 
well.

	When she arrived at the café that evening - only
eleven minutes late 
this 
time - Harm was already seated, and there was a cup of
coffee and a 
muffin 
waiting for her.  "C.J.," he greeted pleasantly. 
"Hope you like 
blueberry.  
I took a guess."

	It was a good guess, but she didn't dare let down her
guard just yet.  
"So 
you're just another lawyer, huh?" she asked, leveling
an accusatory 
stare on 
him as she took a seat.  "Spend all your days in the
courtroom and in 
that 
'action-packed office' you spoke of?"

	"Most of the time," he answered, unsure what to make
of her demeanor.  
"Occasionally things get a little more exciting, but -
"

	"What would you call exciting?  Say, for instance,
allowing a nuclear 
missile to lock onto your aircraft engine in order to
steer it away 
from a 
carrier?  Would that qualify?"

	He winced.  "You heard about that, huh?"

	"I briefed it five weeks ago.  I just didn't realize
until this 
afternoon 
that you were the pilot I'd been talking about.  When
I called up your 
service record, the file almost killed my computer." 
She folded her 
arms.  
"So were you going to tell me what you're really like
at some point, or 
were 
you going to let me continue to believe that you're
just another one of 
the 
guys?"

	"I didn't realize I was keeping secrets," he replied
coolly.  "Did you 
find 
my service record to be a page-turner?"

	"Well, the two Distinguished Flying Crosses were a
good start, but I 
nodded 
off somewhere after the part where you saved the life
of Vladmir 
Putin."

	Mildly irritated, he met her gaze without flinching. 
"Was I supposed 
to 
list all that crap off as soon as we sat down last
week?  Sometimes I 
get 
into some weird situations.  It's what I do.  It
doesn't define my 
existence."

	"Okay, I'm sorry.  That was a bad note to start out
on.  I just didn't 
expect to see your name jump off the page at me when I
read about the 
Seahawk incident."

	"I guess I did mislead you a little about that.  I
never mentioned the 
fact 
that I got my vision corrected and was reinstated on
active flight 
duty, did 
I?"

	"No, you missed that part.  And I'm not sure I've
quite figured out 
how you 
ended up chasing a missile, but now that I'm here, I'd
sure like to 
hear you 
try and explain it."

	Harm offered a half-shrug, looking more uncertain
than she'd yet seen 
him.  
"Right place, right time, I guess.  It's a an exercise
that all flight 
crews 
do, and since I still had the ship's record, they gave
me a plane and 
said 
'go to it.'  There really isn't much more to it than
that."

	"From your perspective, maybe, but from where I sit,
there has to be 
more 
to it.  They're giving you a medal for it, aren't
they?"

	"Could we maybe find something else to talk about? 
That week wasn't 
one of 
the high points of my life.  A good friend of mine was
wounded in 
country, 
and ... I just don't really want to go back there, all
right?"

	"Sure, I understand.  Well, no, I don't, but I can
respect it."  C.J. 
took 
a bite of her muffin.  "Good choice, by the way. 
Since you got me 
food, 
maybe I should let you choose the discussion topic."

	"I have to warn you that the topic on my mind at the
moment might be 
something you wouldn't feel comfortable discussing."

	She looked at him askance, trying to decide if that
was supposed to be 
a 
hint, but he gazed back at her in total innocence. 
"Okay, I've been 
warned. 
  Fire away."

	"Are we going to war in the Middle East?"

	"We're already at war in the Middle East, in a manner
of speaking."

	"I don't mean the war on terror.  Does the
administration foresee a 
conflict with Qumar on the horizon?"

	That stopped her in her tracks.  It was the question
she'd been 
dreading 
for weeks, the question she'd begged Josh to answer
just that 
afternoon.  
But she'd expected to get it from a reporter, one of
the veterans of 
the 
press corps who'd been tracking these kinds of leads
for years.  She 
wasn't 
supposed to get it from this - what was he, anyway? 
"Why would you say 
that?" she asked carefully.

	He wasn't put off by the shield that seemed to lock
into place with 
that 
comment.  "Last month, Qumari defense minister Abdul
Shareef was killed 
as 
he returned home from a 'goodwill' visit to the United
States.  I'm 
sure you 
know the details better than I do, but I do have a
certain level of 
clearance, and there aren't many options for
determining exactly where 
his 
plane may have been forced to land.  Also, a midsize
cargo ship was 
seized 
in the San Francisco Bay a few weeks ago, and two of
its crew were 
found to 
have Qumari citizenship - "

	"They all held multiple passports," she broke in,
narrowing her eyes.  
"All 
right, keep your damn voice down.  If you know about
the ship, then you 
probably know what it was carrying."

	"Not specifically, but I'll assume it wasn't a
shipment of teddy 
bears.  
And since I'm not the cynical type, I'm more than
willing to believe 
that 
Shareef's assassination was only ordered because he
was found to be 
part of 
some kind of plot.  Hypothetically speaking."

	"If such an act were to be undertaken by the U.S.
government," she 
replied 
with the utmost caution, "it would only be in response
to a heinous act 
against the citizens of this country."

	"Of that I have no doubt.  But if that's the case,
then why stay quiet 
about it?  Why not come out with an accusation against
the Qumaris, if 
they 
tried to attack us?"

	"Leaving aside Section 18 of the U.S. Code, you mean?
 Because 'they' 
is a 
tough concept to nail down.  We don't know who in
their regime is with 
us 
and who isn't.  If we go public with the rationale
behind the 
assassination 
- and don't you dare take this as confirmation that we
had anything to 
do 
with it - tempers will start to flare, and pretty soon
we really will 
be in 
a declared war with another country."

	"Or five other countries," he agreed grimly.  "All
right, I appreciate 
the 
honesty, and I'm not going to run off to the press
with it.  It's a 
self-serving curiosity, since I tend to end up in war
zones on a 
regular 
basis.  I just like to know what I'm getting into, and
these days I 
almost 
never know what I'm getting into until I'm already
knee-deep in it."

	"It must be hard, to follow whatever orders you're
given without 
getting 
the reasons behind them."

	"I usually get to see the reasons sooner or later."

	"That's only because you're an officer."

	Harm smiled a little at that, but it quickly faded. 
"Maybe so.  At 
any 
rate, I can't say I'm thrilled to hear that there have
been other plots 
against our own shores recently.  I guess I thought
that things would 
eventually calm down, or something.  If you'd come to
me this time last 
year 
and told me that I'd still be flying civil air patrol
every third 
weekend, 
I'd have sent you off to get your head examined."

	"You patrol over the District?"

	"And New York, occasionally, when their ANG units are
stretched too 
thin.  
I even flew over the Superdome for the first half of
the Super Bowl 
last 
year.  I sure don't mind logging the flight hours, but
at the same time 
... 
It's been the first time in my life where the pure
love of what I do 
hasn't 
been enough to outweigh the reasons for having to do
it."

	She had to stop and think about that statement for a
minute.  It 
seemed 
like a very telling insight into the mind of a combat
aviator.  These 
men 
and women truly loved to fly, yet they all had to know
that any 
situation 
which would properly use their skills would be little
more than a last 
resort.  They trained endlessly for a day that
everyone hoped would 
never 
come.

	But of course, in spite of all the hopes, the day had
come once again.  
She 
shook her head to clear it.  "Well, speaking as
someone who spends a 
lot of 
time in one of the biggest targets in Washington, I'm
grateful for your 
services."

	"All in a day's work, ma'am."  He tipped an imaginary
cowboy hat.

	Just then, a sharp sound from just over her shoulder
caught her 
off-guard, 
and she jumped, startled.  With reflexes honed in the
cockpit, Harm 
reached 
out to deflect the tray that was careening toward her,
and it clattered 
to 
the floor.  The waitress apologized profusely,
cleaning up the spilled 
drinks as quickly as she could manage, and C.J.
realized just how hard 
her 
heart was pounding.  Embarrassed, she looked away from
her companion.

	"Thanks for the save."

	"No problem.  Are you all right?"

	"Sure.  I'm just - jumpier than I used to be, I
guess."

	"Being stalked will do that to you," he observed.

	"I don't think it all started with being stalked.  I
think it probably 
started when I heard gunshots over my head in Rosslyn
a couple years 
ago, 
and it probably won't stop until I'm well and truly
out of the public 
eye."

	"That may be.  But you handle it well, and I admire
that."

	She studied him critically.  "You've got to know what
it's like.  
You've 
been shot at, right?"

	That earned a rueful smirk.  "You don't want to know
how many times."

	"Well, imagine having it happen to you before you'd
ever had any 
military 
training, and then you'll start to see why I can be
such a wimp about 
it."

	"C.J., you are many things, but wimpy is definitely
not one of them."

	Something about the casual sincerity in those words
warmed her.  
"Thanks, I 
think, but do you understand what I mean?  I wonder if
maybe you don't 
see 
me as the same kind of person you are."

	"What do you mean?  We're both serving at the
pleasure of the 
President, in 
one form or another."

	"Yes, but I came to this job late, after ten years of
selling shallow 
bullshit and making an obscene amount of money doing
it.  I was 
Hollywood, 
for God's sake.  I'm not ashamed of it, but at the
same time, I'm not 
really 
in a position to declare myself a patron saint of
democracy.  You, on 
the 
other hand, have been doing every single thing your
country's asked of 
you 
since you were ... what?"

	"Seventeen," he supplied matter-of-factly.

	"Seventeen?  You can join up that young?"

	"I went to the Academy."  He met her gaze with
surprising gravity.  
"Don't 
put me up on any pedestals, C.J.  I'm at least as
flawed as anyone in 
this 
room."

"I guess I'll just have to take your word for it."

"For now.  But don't sell yourself short, either.  Not
too many people 
can 
do what you do every day and maintain their sanity."

"I knew this was a good idea.  Good coffee and free
self-esteem therapy 
in 
one package."  They shared a laugh, and she decided to
charge ahead.  
"Listen, can I ask you for another somewhat strange
favor?"

	His eyes still flickered with amusement.  "How well
do we really know 
each 
other?"

	"That's kind of my point.  I was wondering, when we
meet next week - 
assuming that you still want to meet next week, since
obviously you're 
under 
no obligation here - "

	"C.J.," he interrupted gently, ending her tangent. 
"Just say what you 
want 
to say, all right?"

	She bit her lip.  "Would you mind wearing something
civilian?  It's 
not 
that I mind the uniform, but I'd like to see you out
of it - "  
Abruptly she 
halted, flames shooting up her cheeks, as he lifted an
eyebrow at her 
choice 
of words.  "Oh, Jesus, you'd think I would've learned
to express myself 
better by now."

	"It's all right."

	"What I meant was that I've only ever seen you like
this, and I'm 
afraid 
I'll never be able to separate you as an officer from
you as a person.  
There _is_ more to you than the Navy, right?"

	"I'd like to think so."  He waved a listless hand. 
"Sometimes it's 
hard to 
be sure."

	"I know what that's like."

	"I'll ditch the uniform if you tell me what C.J.
stands for."

	She hadn't expected that.  "You don't know?  I'm sure
you could have 
looked 
it up somewhere."

	"I could have.  I didn't."

	"You really don't know that much about me, do you?"

	He shrugged.  "Only what you've told me.  It didn't
occur to me to 
check 
around."

	"The last time I had coffee with a guy, he spent
three days watching 
me on 
C-SPAN just to pretend he was in the know."

	"I don't own a TV."

	"Lucky you."  She shook her head, incredulous.  "My
entire day 
revolves 
around presenting the right media image.  And you just
let it all go 
by."

	"Well, I do read the Post."

	"Claudia Jean," she informed him succinctly.

	"Claudia Jean?"

	"Yeah."

	"It's nice."  Their gazes locked, and once again she
was impressed by 
his 
quiet intensity.  "I guess I'll see you next week. 
Without the 
uniform."

	"All right.  Have a good evening."


** End Part 2/7 **


***************
(start Part Three)

Wednesday
July 17, 2002
The West Wing

	"What's this word?"

	C.J. peered at the scrawled notes in front of her,
then at the person 
holding the scrawled notes in front of her.  "You
think I read 
Ziegler-ese?"

	"At the moment, that is in fact my fervent hope," Sam
replied, 
sounding 
optimistic.

	"He's _your_ boss."

	"And I can make out every word he writes, except this
one."  He 
pointed 
again.  "I think it's either 'compensation' or
'competition'."

	"The difference could be important, then, couldn't
it?"

	Sam stepped back from her desk and tilted his head to
study her.  
"What's 
going on with you, anyway?"

	"To my knowledge, nothing is going on with me," she
answered breezily.  
"Why do you ask?"

	"You're happy.  You haven't been this consistently
happy since before 
the 
reelection campaign kicked off."

	C.J. propped her feet up on the lower shelf.  "Well,
gee-whiz, Sparky, 
do 
tell."

	He lowered his voice.  "I'm actually being serious. 
I know things 
haven't 
been easy lately, so I'm just saying that if you've
found someone that 
- "

	"Sam, if you're trying in your own charming way to
ask if I'm getting 
any, 
I'll just put your mind at ease with a resounding no."

	He closed his mouth for a moment.  "Okay, then."

	"I have a social life, you know, and on occasion I
visit with people I 
find 
to be interesting.  There's absolutely nothing out of
the ordinary 
about 
it."

	"This is about that Navy guy, isn't it?"

	The innocent query caused her to swing around so fast
that her glasses 
slipped off her nose and ended up dangling from their
chain.  "Ex-cuse 
me?"

	"Carol mentioned how great she thought it was that
you were seeing 
that 
officer from - "

	She cut him off a second time.  "Okay, the wrath I
suddenly have for 
Carol 
notwithstanding, I'm not 'seeing' anyone.  This is not
the Dating Game.  
He's a friend."

	Sam raised his hands in surrender.  "In that case,
I'll make my exit 
before 
I get added to this wrath list of yours, which I've
never heard of 
before 
but which scares the crap out of me just the same."

	"You do that.  Carol!"

	Carol was away from her desk, so she unknowingly
managed to escape a 
dire 
fate.  C.J.'s ire faded quickly as she reflected on
the past few weeks.  
She 
hadn't a clue how her weekly meetings with Harm had
become common 
knowledge, 
but after all, it was a public coffeehouse.  What did
it matter?  She 
was 
enjoying the hell out of herself.  Harmon Rabb was an
intriguing, 
engaging 
man, but more importantly, he was deeply real.  They'd
connected 
amazingly 
well, talking about everything and nothing, and it had
truly been a 
calming 
influence in her chaotic life.

	He'd told her about losing his father and finding his
brother; about 
his 
enigmatic relationship with Sarah Mackenzie; about his
frustration and 
admittedly misplaced guilt over the crippling injury
suffered recently 
by a 
friend and fellow JAG attorney; and finally about some
rather traumatic 
memories that still haunted him, related to an
aircraft he'd been 
forced to 
ditch into the ocean just a year ago.  In turn, she'd
told him about 
her 
father's agonizing decline into Alzheimer's dementia,
and she'd managed 
to 
open up about what Simon had been -or could have been
- to her.  She 
found 
herself looking forward to Thursdays, all the while
pushing aside a few 
nagging doubts about where it all was heading.

	At last, she decided not to smack Carol around for
having a big mouth.  
So 
what if half the building knew what she did with her
Thursday nights?  
The 
staff rumor mill wasn't so terrible.  If they got a
little 
entertainment out 
of jumping to conclusions about her social life, let
them have their 
fun.

	Famous last words.

	The following day, she realized just how badly she'd
underestimated 
her 
colleagues.  The rumor mill, it turned out, extended
as far at the Oval 
Office.

	"...Rankin's threatening to mobilize a whole slew of
southern 
Democrats 
against the higher education bill," Josh was reporting
as he paced 
behind 
the couch.  "He says they weren't elected to support
New England 
academic 
elitism."

	"That's hysterical, coming from a Stanford graduate,"
President 
Bartlet 
commented dryly.  "Leo?"

	"I'll take care of it," the chief of staff promised. 
"Rankin will 
close up 
shop at the first hint of a discussion on health care
reform."

	"Dangle it in front of him, but don't get carried
away.  What's next?"

	"That's it, sir."

	"All right.  Beat it, you slackers."

	Amid the murmurs of "Thank you, Mr. President,"
Bartlet beckoned to 
C.J. 
with a finger.  "Hold on a minute, C.J."

	She paused in mid-stride, hoping his apparent good
mood was genuine.  
"Yes, 
sir?"

	He stood up from his chair, sliding his hands into
his pockets.  "Dare 
I 
believe the buzz around here?  Have you gotten chummy
with a Navy 
commander?"

	C.J. resisted the immediate urge to shake her head in
sheer amazement.  
"Sir, I'm not going to bother asking how you came by
that information - 
"

	"Charlie, who else?"

	" - but I'm sure that whatever you heard was vastly
overblown."

	"Oh, I doubt that.  I usually get pretty good intel
in this line of 
work."  
The President regarded her calmly.  "Harmon Rabb, Jr.,
of the JAG Corps 
and 
the naval aviation service, depending on the day. 
Annapolis graduate, 
veteran of combat missions over Libya, Kosovo, and
Afghanistan, and 
apparently the savior of the USS Seahawk battle group
last month.  Did 
I hit 
the highlights?"

	"Charlie again?"

	"He's a diligent researcher."

	She spread her hands.  "Mr. President, it's nothing
serious.  We have 
fun 
together as friends, and that's it."

	"Call it what you will," he said agreeably, tweaking
her nerves.  
"What's 
he like?"

	Either it was a slow day, she concluded, or the chief
executive was 
feeling 
paternal all of a sudden.  "He's smart," she answered
honestly.  "Very 
smart, in fact."

	"Smarter than your average lawyer, or than your
average sailor?"

	"Both, probably.  He's rather knowledgeable about
foreign relations - 
he's 
got a number of opinions on the state of affairs in
the Middle East 
that 
probably bear some resemblance to what you get in your
briefings."

	That earned a sharp look.  "C.J., you haven't been
telling tales out 
of 
school, have you?"

	"Sir, I think you know that I haven't been read in on
any of that 
stuff, 
but if I had, I wouldn't be passing that information
along to my 
friends, 
even if they did have clearance."

	"I know.  I just had to ask."  He drew a weary hand
over his eyes, a 
gesture that didn't escape her notice.

	"Sir, without getting too specific ... did we achieve
our objective?  
Did 
we eliminate whatever threat existed within the Qumari
government?"

"You can never really eliminate threats in this game. 
You can only 
reduce 
them, and I think we've done that.  The head of this
particular 
organization 
has been cut off.  But that doesn't mean we're out of
the woods."  He 
sighed.  "Never mind.  Bring him in here, would you?"

She blinked, wondering if she'd misheard.  "I'm sorry,
sir?"

"This ubiquitous aviator of yours.  I'd like to meet
any man who can 
hold 
your attention like this."

As he meandered back around his desk, she folded her
arms.  "May I ask 
what 
you intend to do, besides possibly cleaning a shotgun
in front of him?"

"Nobody likes a wiseass, C.J.  Last I checked, I was
still a member in 
good 
standing of the Democratic Party."  Bartlet leaned
forward on the desk.  
"You were going to see him tonight anyway, right? 
Haul him in here 
instead. 
  It's shaping up to be an uneventful evening."

C.J. considered trying to refuse.  It was a ridiculous
request - but 
then 
again, it wasn't really a request.  He was the
President of the United 
States, and if he wanted to meet with a particular
officer for whatever 
reason, no discussion was necessary.

Harm had held his ground with the king of Romania and
the presidents of 
Russia and Cuba.  He could handle the Bartlet third
degree.  She 
sighed.  
"Yes, sir."


***************


Thursday
JAG Headquarters

	Mac watched her friend emerge from his office at
1915, and crossed the 
quiet bullpen to flag him down.  "Hey.  Have you been
working on your 
closing this whole time?"

	"Pretty much."  Harm offered a shrug.  "Arguing
extenuating 
circumstance 
seems weak, but the corporal didn't give me much
choice in the matter."

	"It'll work out.  You busy tonight?  Sturgis and I
were going to 
hassle 
each other about the Williams appeal in front of the
Cubs-Diamondbacks 
game."

	He hesitated slightly.  "Sorry, I kinda have a
standing coffee date."

	Sturgis Turner wandered into at that point, briefcase
in tow.  "With 
the 
mysterious C.J. again?  Buddy, are you ever going to
clue us in on 
that?"

	Mac cocked an eyebrow, waiting for his answer.  She
was at least as 
curious 
as Sturgis was, but on some level, she wasn't sure she
really wanted to 
know.

	"What's to clue in on?  It's coffee.  That's all." 
Harm recognized 
the 
defensive note in his voice and cursed inwardly.  The
last thing he 
wanted 
to do was give Mac the wrong impression.

	"Coffee and civvies, apparently."  Mac indicated the
duffel in his 
hand.  
"Or is that an overnight bag?"

	Sturgis shot her a look, shocked that she'd made such
a brazen 
inquiry.  
Harm was thrown off stride - he'd thought they were
past this kind of 
thing 
- and fumbled his response entirely.

"It is not.  I've just gotten into the habit of
changing.  Originally 
she 
said something about wanting to see me out of uniform
for a change - "  
As 
his friends' eyebrows shot up, he stopped, mortified. 
"Oh, I don't 
_believe_ I walked into that one.  Never mind, all
right?  I just like 
not 
being a recruiting poster for one night a week."

	His gaze strayed up to the bank of television
monitors.  One was 
re-broadcasting that afternoon's White House press
conference, and when 
Mac 
put two and two together, her jaw dropped.  "You're
kidding.  _That_ 
C.J.?"

	"And you call yourself a Republican?" Sturgis
demanded, only 
half-joking.

	Harm gave them both a hard look.  "I call myself
open-minded, thank 
you.  
Now scram."

	"Oo-kay ..."

	"Good _night_," he called over his shoulder, heading
for the 
elevators.

	Mac watched him go, her expression uncertain. 
"Sturgis," she began 
quietly, "do you think - ?"

	"Do I think the love of your life is sleeping with
the White House 
press 
secretary?" he finished for her.  She glared at him,
but allowed him to 
continue.  "No, I don't.  But if you're really worried
about it, it 
seems to 
me that the most direct course of action would be to
talk to him."

	"You've been saying that for six months."

	"And you've been ignoring it for at least that long."

	She picked up her cover and purse without giving him
a direct 
response.  
"You're a big help, Sturgis, you know that?"

	"I try.  Come on, the game's starting."

	As he drove into the District from Falls Church, Harm
mulled over the 
conversation in the bullpen once again.  For reasons
he couldn't 
explain, 
the idea that Mac might see these coffee dates as
actual _dates_ 
worried 
him.  It wasn't as if her owed her an explanation, but
- well, maybe he 
did. 
  It was hard to be sure of anything on that subject. 
*So what else is 
new,* he thought ruefully.

	Maybe he'd stop by Sturgis's place on the way home
from Café Maria and 
watch the last couple of innings with them.  At least
then she'd know 
that 
he wasn't going home with C.J.  Damn, was he turning
this into a 
perfect 
military mess, or what?  "Avoid even the appearance of
impropriety..."

	He wasn't doing anything - and even if he had been,
it wouldn't be 
wrong.  
That was all there was to it.  Then why did he always
feel like even 
glancing at C.J.'s impressive legs was a betrayal?

	Determined to push those doubts aside for the moment,
he parked 
outside the 
café and reached into the backseat to retrieve his
duffel.  As he 
opened his 
door to climb out of the car, a figure appeared in his
peripheral 
vision, 
and he swung quickly to his feet, instantly alert.

	C.J. held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. 
"Whoa, tiger.  Are 
you 
always this jumpy?"

	"I live in a rough neighborhood and tend to have a
number of people 
pissed 
off at me at any given time," he answered, relaxing. 
"Sorry.  Why 
aren't 
you inside?"

	"Because we're not staying.  Get back in your car and
follow me."

	"Where are we going?"

	"The staff entrance to the West Wing.  It's
convenient that you're 
still in 
uniform"

	"Should I bother asking why?"

	"Somebody wants to meet you."

	She purposely avoided telling him who the 'somebody'
was until they 
were 
through security and moving through the expansive
lobby.  When she 
finally 
confessed, it merely confirmed his suspicions, but it
didn't dull the 
impact 
of the idea.

	"You're telling me that we're just going to march
down the hall, walk 
into 
the Oval Office, and say 'hi'?"

	"Unless he's busy running the country or something,
yes."

	Harm narrowed his eyes at her as they stepped into
her office.  
"You're not 
nearly as funny as you think you are."

	"You'd see the humor in this situation if it were
happening to someone 
other than you."

	"Well, I'm not that lucky, am I?"  He tossed his
cover on her desk and 
gave 
her a pleading look.  "Seriously, C.J., what in God's
name could the 
President want with me?  He doesn't call in all your
friends for a 
meeting, 
right?"

	"You're overestimating my social skill and
underestimating the 
all-consuming nature of this job.  The truth is, I
don't have another 
friend 
like you in this entire time zone, and no matter how
many times I try 
to 
tell people that, they all invariably assume that
we're - what do you 
Navy 
types call it?"

	"Hot-bunking?" he supplied, a faint grin tugging at
the corner of his 
mouth.

	"Exactly.  I think the President just misses
harassing his daughters' 
boyfriends.  He won't tear you apart.  I promise.  And
you'll be able 
to say 
you've actually met your commander in chief."

	"I don't really have any choice here, do I?"

	"Not that I've noticed."  She smiled sweetly and
extended a hand 
toward the 
door.  "Shall we?"

	The moved through the Communications offices, where
Toby, Josh and Sam 
were 
huddling over a recent draft of the weekly radio
address.  C.J. was 
well 
aware that the guys had all been vocal participants in
the speculation 
about 
her love life: nothing turned the three of them into
frat boys faster 
than 
an opportunity to mess with the only female senior
staffer.  Now she 
had an 
opportunity to head some of it off.  "Ah, the Three
Musketeers.  Harm, 
this 
is Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn, Deputy
Chief of Staff 
Josh 
Lyman, and Communications Director Toby Ziegler. 
Guys, my friend, 
Commander 
Harmon Rabb."

	Harm shook their hands, easily ignoring the way the
activity of the 
area 
seemed to have slowed upon his arrival.  "It's a
pleasure."

	"Good to meet you," Sam responded, "and I for one
would like to thank 
you 
for whatever you've done to make C.J. so much nicer to
be around lately 
- "

	"Knock it off, Samuel," C.J. directed with a tight
smile.

	"Hey, let me ask you a question, Commander," Josh
jumped in before 
Harm 
could react to the previous exchange.  "Do you feel
that this 
administration 
supports academic elitism?"

	"Oh, we're not going to get into this again, are we?"
Toby rolled his 
eyes.

	"I want an outside opinion on this," Josh insisted. 
"Federal aid for 
higher education is getting hung up on about a million
different 
issues, but 
the big ones are state-sponsored universities versus
private 
institutions 
and merit-based versus need-based scholarships.  We've
got congressmen 
complaining that the President can't see the little
people from his 
ivory 
tower, and I don't think the group of us here with our
Ivy League 
diplomas 
can be totally objective."

	"Hey, I went to a state school," C.J. objected.

	"So did I," Toby chimed in, "and we're not going to
have this 
discussion 
again, all right?"

	"I don't know if I'm really the right person to weigh
in on this, 
anyway," 
Harm added with a shrug.

	But Sam was on the trail now, too.  "Commander, you
went to college, I 
assume?"

	C.J. just looked at him, stunned and exasperated. 
That question 
summed up 
everything Sam - and probably the rest of them -
didn't know about the 
military: a college degree was a requirement for
commissioning as an 
officer.  But Harm didn't even flinch.  "Well, my law
degree is from 
Georgetown," he replied smoothly, "but my graduating
class at the Naval 
Academy was approximately nine hundred cadets.  When
it comes to 
elitism, I 
think we pretty much take the prize."

	"And since there's no tuition, he can't help you with
the scholarship 
issue, either," C.J. said curtly, taking his arm and
pulling him away.  
"We're late.  Say goodnight, boys."

	As they disappeared down the corridor, Sam turned to
the other two.  
"I 
just insulted him, didn't I?"

	"Pretty effectively," was Toby's assessment.

	Donna stepped out of Josh's office, where she'd been
eavesdropping, 
and 
leveled an accusing stare on all of them.  "That was
brilliantly acted, 
you 
guys.  Congratulations on perpetuating the
stereotypical liberal 
anti-military bias.  Did you actually think he could
be a lawyer 
without 
going to college?"

	"How was I supposed to know he was a lawyer?" Sam
said defensively.  
"_I'm_ 
a lawyer.  Is he in any way like me?"

	"Please tell me you don't want an answer to that."

	Toby frowned.  "He wears wings, like he's a pilot. 
Does the Navy let 
their 
people moonlight like that?"

	"Maybe he got the wings from a flight attendant on
Delta," Josh 
theorized, 
already harboring an instant dislike for anyone who
could command so 
much of 
C.J.'s respect.

	"He could get a lot of things from a flight attendant
on Delta," Donna 
replied with a sly grin.

	"Go - fax something, would you?" Josh said irritably.

	"Envy is unbecoming, Joshua ..."

	Charlie Young glanced up when C.J. and Harm made
their way into the 
outer 
office.  "He said to go on in."

	"Thanks."  C.J. opened the door.  Harm, drawing a
deep breath, 
followed her 
inside and came to attention in front of the wide oak
desk.

	"Mr. President, may I present Commander Harmon Rabb,
Junior."

	Bartlet looked up at the officer standing in front of
him and waved a 
hand. 
  "At ease, relax."  Harm eased into a parade-rest
stance, still wary, 
as 
the President eyed him up and down.  "So.  You're the
one who saved six 
thousand sailors from a nuclear blast, huh?"

	Harm blinked, unsure how to answer.  "In a manner of
speaking, sir."

	" 'In a manner of speaking'?  Did you or did you not
allow a guided 
missile 
to lock onto your engine and lead it away from the
Seahawk battle 
group?"

	"I did, sir."

	"Then drop the 'aw, shucks' routine, Commander." 
Bartlet's gray eyes 
were 
steely.  "Pilots are seldom, if ever, truly humble,
and I know this 
because 
I have one for my chief of staff."

	"I apologize, sir.  I'm also a lawyer, so that screws
it up."

	"I have a few of those skulking around, too, and
they're worse."

	C.J., hovering near the door, winced at that.  *This
really is just 
like 
bringing a prom date home to meet Dad,* she thought
helplessly.

	"C.J. says you're well-versed in foreign affairs, and
that you're one 
of 
the smartest people she knows.  I'm trying not to take
offense at that, 
since she knows me, too, but let's stick with the
first topic.  I'm not 
sure 
I've ever met a military officer below the level of
general staff who 
honestly cared about foreign policy.  They always seem
to want only as 
much 
information as they need to carry out their
objectives.  So is your 
interest 
connected to your legal responsibilities, or to your
survival instinct 
as an 
aviator?"

	"I don't think everything in my life falls neatly
into one category or 
the 
other, sir.  I'm a concerned citizen like anyone else.
 I just happen 
to 
have acquaintances in the intelligence business."

	"I see."  Bartlet leaned back in his chair.  "I've
never been under 
any 
illusions about the general opinion your
brothers-in-arms have of me.  
I'm 
an economics professor who never spent a day in
uniform.  I don't give 
them 
enough money or freedom to fulfill their mission to
the extent that 
they'd 
like.  Would you call that a fair assessment?"

	"Not entirely, sir.  Yes, there were a number of
officers who felt 
that 
way, but a lot of things changed when we went into
Afghanistan.  I 
think 
people started to take a different view of the
military's role in the 
whole 
process, and part of that is understanding that we
have to maintain a 
balance with our elected leadership."

	"What a diplomatic response.  I'm going to go ahead
and cut right to 
it, 
okay?  What I really want to know is what you think,
not what the Navy 
tells 
you to think."

	Despite the intimidating locale, Harm felt a flash of
anger, and he 
instinctively drew himself up even taller.  "Mr.
President, the Navy 
tells 
me many things, but what I think is still my choice."

	C.J. cringed in the background.  She recognized that
her boss had made 
the 
inflammatory comment deliberately, to goad the other
man into fully 
speaking 
his mind.  She just hoped that it wouldn't blow up in
their faces.

	"Glad to hear it.  See, I'm having a hard time
reading you, Commander.  
You're not falling all over yourself to impress me,
which I like, but 
at the 
same time, I'm beginning to wonder whether gaining my
respect means 
anything 
to you at all."

	Harm's eyes widened slightly.  "Sir, if I've been
disrespectful, I - "

	"That's not what I said, so you can stop covering
your ass.  I'm going 
to 
present you with a hypothetical situation, in order to
get around your 
innate apprehensions about criticizing your superiors.
 If you happened 
to 
agree with my politics, which I realize is doubtful,
would you have 
voted 
for me?"

	At that moment, Harm realized that Josiah Bartlet
was, among other 
things, 
a brilliant judge of human behavior.  He didn't have a
hard time 
reading 
anyone.  Not only had he recognized his visitor's
hesitation, he'd most 
likely pinpointed the reasons for it, and now he was
waiting to see 
whether 
this confident young officer had the guts to fess up
to them.

	Harmon Rabb, of course, had never in his life backed
down from a 
challenge. 
  Even one issued by the most powerful man in the
world.

	"Four years ago, yes, sir."

	"But not now," the President pressed.

	He tightened his hands into fists behind his back,
wondering if he was 
about to scuttle his career.  "Please understand, sir,
I do admire your 
accomplishments - "

	"But I lied."

	"You concealed the truth, sir.  In my line of work,
truth is the 
strongest 
- and sometimes the only - ally I've got."

	Bartlet stared impassively at him for an interminable
moment.  At 
last, he 
said simply, "Okay."

	"Sir?"

	"Okay, you can keep seeing C.J."

	Harm shook his head, perplexed.  "Mr. President, I'm
not _seeing_ C.J.  
She's a good friend."

	"Whatever you two want to call it.  Thanks for coming
in on short 
notice."

	C.J. stepped forward, relieved but also slightly
unnerved by the 
exchange.  
"Just quit while you're ahead," she instructed Harm
under her breath.  
"Thank you, Mr. President."

	They were back in her office in seconds, and she shut
the door 
securely 
before turning on him.  "So that's your problem with
him?" she asked 
bluntly.  "Not welfare or gun control or the
environment, but M.S.?"

	Detecting a harsh note in her voice, Harm tensed. 
"My level of 
respect for 
a person isn't tied to politics, and his political
ability has very 
little 
to do with having the disease.  But that isn't what he
asked, and for 
me, it 
all comes back to trust."

	"You don't find him trustworthy?"

	He sighed.  This had the potential to get ugly. 
"C.J., I know you 
can't 
win at this game by being a perfect Boy Scout.  I
really do.  But the 
fact 
is, he made a choice to conceal his state of health
from the public.  
He 
decided that getting himself into that office was more
important than 
being 
open and forthright with the people who elected him. 
I'm not 
condemning him 
for that - I think there's a strong possibility that
he may in fact be 
the 
best person to lead this country.  But the image he
presented to the 
American public for four years wasn't truthful, and I
can't in good 
conscience reward a person for that."

	"So that's it?  End of story?  You'd rather just give
your vote to 
Ritchey, 
a man who probably had to lie about his IQ?  You must
really be a slave 
to 
your morals."

	"Why are you getting so indignant about this?  I'm
not attacking you 
or 
anyone else.  You didn't know.  Did you?"  She didn't
respond right 
away, 
and he knew that he'd somehow hit close to home. 
"C.J.?  Did you know 
the 
President had multiple sclerosis?"

	She met his gaze, and there was a flicker of
uncertainty there that he 
hadn't seen before.  "Not until a couple of weeks
before the 
announcement," 
she answered, her voice distant.  "But as soon as he
told us, we had to 
go 
right into damage control.  We spent days figuring out
the best 
possible way 
to break the news, and I had to talk to about a
million lawyers, and 
... I'd 
been an accomplice to something for years without even
knowing it, but 
as 
soon as I did know, I had to defend every action we'd
ever taken.  And 
I 
needed - I still need - to believe that that was the
right thing to do.  
So 
I have to believe in him.  If I don't ... I might as
well give up and 
go 
back to California."

	He nodded, accepting that reasoning.  But she wasn't
finished.  "And 
to 
tell you the truth, I'm getting a little tired of
having to defend him 
on 
this issue.  It's been a year since we owned up to
this story, and if 
people 
haven't gotten the idea by now that he's perfectly fit
to hold office, 
then 
I don't know what will convince them."

	"I never questioned that."

	"No, all you care about is the fact that he didn't
elaborate on every 
detail of it before getting on the ballot four years
ago."

	"He didn't elaborate on _any_ detail of it."  Harm
cut himself off 
before 
the discussion could get heated again.  "Why are we
going around in 
circles 
about this?"

	"Because I can't convince myself that you have any
respect for me if 
you 
don't have any respect for him!"

	"I never said I didn't have any respect for him! 
C.J., people make 
mistakes in judgement.  Big ones, sometimes.  Believe
me, I used up my 
quota 
of those a long time ago.  It doesn't make them bad
people.  I do 
respect 
the President, but I respect you more, and one has
nothing to do with 
the 
other.  I don't know what else to tell you."

	He picked up his cover and turned to leave, but her
voice halted his 
action.

	"Harm, wait.  I'm sorry.  I don't know why I'm so
desperate for your 
approval, but thank you for not rescinding it based on
this little 
neurotic 
episode.  If it helps, I think you made a good
impression.  The 
President 
likes people who stand by their principles and don't
give him any 
crap."

	At that, he smiled, shaking his head.  "How do you
keep from freaking 
out 
on a daily basis?  Just being in that room was worse
than staring down 
a 
gun."

	"You get used to it.  Kind of."  C.J. shrugged,
returning the smile as 
an 
idea came to her.  "Hey, I realize that this is short
notice, but are 
you 
doing anything next Friday night?"

	"Uh oh.  Are you considering breaking our pattern of
Thursdays?"

	"Live a little.  We've got a state dinner planned for
the president of 
Brazil, and I was thinking that for once, it might be
nice to actually 
have 
someone to dance with at one of these things."

	His eyebrow arched.  "I'm not sure your colleagues
like me very much."

	"They're social morons - it's part of their charm. 
Are you busy, or 
not?"

	"Unless I get sent out on a case at the last minute,
I think I'm free.  
I'd 
better get my dress uniform cleaned, though."

	"And polish your medals.  I always wanted to have a
date who clinks 
when he 
walks."

	He rolled his eyes skyward.  "You're still not
funny."

	"I know.  I still want to do coffee next week,
though."

	"You'd better.  I'm going to need an etiquette
lesson.  Can I leave 
now, or 
will security attack me if you don't walk me out?"

	"You outrank most of our security," she pointed out.

	"That's true, but I doubt it matters to them. 
They'll just call me 
'sir' 
while they're pinning me against the wall."

	She gave a dismissive wave.  "You're fine.  Get out
of here."

	After he'd vanished around the corner, she sat down
at her desk and 
thought 
about what she'd just done.  Now that they'd finally
settled into the 
idea 
of being nothing more than friends - and after they'd
both done 
everything 
in their power to convince the rest of the world of it
- she'd raised 
the 
stakes from weekly coffee to a formal date.

	Well, would it be so terrible to give it - them - a
try, just for an 
evening?  She *liked* him, damn it.  Was there
anything wrong with 
that?

	Sure, there was.  In fact, there were two distinct
pitfalls in that 
very 
idea, and she knew it.  One was the possibility that
they would be 
totally, 
utterly wrong for each other, and that their
friendship would be 
ruined.  
The other, she was forced to admit, was a Marine
colonel whom she'd 
never 
met but who seemed to have an inexplicable hold on the

otherwise-unflappable 
Harmon Rabb.

	She'd tried on more than one occasion to discern
exactly what her 
friend 
felt for Sarah Mackenzie, but with no luck.  Certainly
there was a 
strong 
bond between the partners, evidenced simply by the way
he spoke of her, 
but 
she'd learned early on that Harm was exceptionally
good at shielding 
his 
true emotions.  Still, he was a grown-up, and he could
make his own 
decisions.  Unless or until he told her otherwise,
C.J. had no 
obligation to 
keep him at arm's length.  When Friday night came,
she'd just play it 
by ear 
and do what made sense at the time.

	Abruptly she stood up and grabbed her purse.  It was
late, and she 
wanted 
to comb her closet for a suitable dress.  After three
years of formal 
functions, she had a rather impressive selection, but
she couldn't help 
thinking about the black Vera Wang gown she'd banished
to the back of 
the 
closet after that night in May, surely never to be
worn again.  Maybe 
it was 
time to look for another Vera Wang.

** End Part 3/7 **


*****************
(start Part Four)

Friday
July 26, 2002
The West Wing

	"Come on, C.J., get the lead out.  I hear there's
food in the other 
room."

	C.J. came to the door of her office in order to shoot
Josh a dirty 
look, 
and he whistled.  "Nice.  New dress?"

	"You say that every time.  Do you really think I buy
a new dress every 
time 
we do one of these things?"

	Josh shrugged.  "I don't know.  But on the occasions
that you do, I 
want to 
get points for noticing."

	She shook her head and reached for her matching
handbag, choosing not 
to 
inform him that this time, she had indeed bought a new
dress.  "Where's 
Amy?"

	"She's already in there.  Why do you think I'm in
such a hurry?"

	"Well, I'm not your babysitter.  You can go ahead
without me."

	"Are you afraid I'm going to mess with your date?"

	"I'm absolutely certain you're going to mess with my
date, so I 
respectfully request that you get lost before I have
to beat you over 
the 
head with one of these shoes."  C.J. strode past him
in her favorite 
pair of 
strappy sandals.  This was quite possibly the first
time she'd ever had 
a 
date whom she wouldn't tower over in heels, and she
was going to milk 
the 
opportunity for all it was worth.

	When she reached the lobby and caught sight of her
friend, standing 
near 
one of the majestic marble pillars, she had to lock
her knees to keep 
from 
falling over.  Whatever the Navy lacked in terms of
summer uniforms, 
they 
more than made up for it when it came to mess dress -
and Harm looked 
better 
than anyone had a right to look in it.  He was holding
his cover in one 
white-gloved hand, and the crisp lines of his short
white jacket and 
dark 
pants were flawless.  A neat row of medals lay against
his chest, and 
she 
sensed that his set of accolades would hold its own
against the 
generals and 
admirals that were sure to be in attendance that
evening.

	For his part, Harm was effectively stunned by her
sleek crimson dress, 
and 
when he recovered, he could only shake his head. 
"C.J., you look 
incredible," he said honestly.  "There's no way you're
going to need me 
around to have someone to dance with."

	"Well, maybe I want you around," she responded with a
smile.  "I have 
to 
say, you do that uniform justice.  Is the tie real, or
is it the clip 
kind?"

	He gave her a long-suffering look.  "This is the most
formal uniform 
we 
have.  You think we don't wear real bow ties?"

	"I'm just impressed that you can tie it.  Josh has
been trying to 
learn how 
for years."

	"I'm a sailor.  I can tie anything."

	"Well, be still my heart," she drawled in a lousy
Southern-belle 
accent, 
fluttering a hand to her chest.  He only shook his
head and offered his 
arm, 
leading her into the ballroom.

	They were seated with the rest of the senior staff,
and before dessert 
was 
served, Toby, Sam, Josh, and C.J. had each been called
away at least 
twice 
to deal with some urgent issue.  Just before the
President was to give 
his 
remarks, all four of them disappeared at once, and
Harm was almost 
relieved 
to have a moment of respite.  The dinner conversation
had been polite, 
but 
awkward - he got the feeling they saw him as some kind
of adversary, in 
spite of C.J.'s best efforts.  Of course, he
reflected, it wasn't just 
him: 
none of them, C.J. included, had been particularly
friendly to Josh's 
girlfriend, either.  Gaining entrance to this inner
circle wasn't 
something 
that was easily accomplished, apparently.

	Deciding that he had nothing to lose, he leaned over
and spoke to the 
other 
abandoned escort left at the table.  "Your date
doesn't like me much, 
does 
he?"

	Amy smiled a little.  "If it makes you feel any
better, yours isn't 
overly 
fond of me, either.  Don't take it personally - Josh
has had a crazy 
couple 
of weeks, and besides, he and C.J. have this
protective sibling thing 
going 
on."

	"What about the others?"

	"You probably challenge their masculinity."

	He raised an eyebrow.  "Then what's their excuse
regarding you?"

	She shrugged.  "I make them nervous.  I just got back
on my feet after 
this 
little A-Team cost me my last job, and yet they all
still think I'm 
working 
an angle."

	"Are you?"

	Amy narrowed her eyes at him.  "Not at the moment,
but check back 
later."

	Before he could attempt to figure out her demeanor,
the staffers 
returned, 
and Josh immediately whisked his girlfriend away.  The
vaguely 
suspicious 
look on his face mirrored C.J.'s as she pulled Harm to
his feet, and 
Amy 
shot him a veiled glance that said *Told you so.* 
Harm sighed and 
decided 
to count his blessings that they all seemed to be
going their separate 
ways 
for a while.

	"This job of yours never takes a break, does it?" he
asked as they 
made 
their way onto the dance floor.

	"You're just now figuring that out?" C.J. responded
lightly, enjoying 
the 
feel of his strong hand at her back.  "You're a combat
pilot.  You have 
to 
know what it's like to be on alert, ready for
anything."

"Sure, but our cruises end after six months, and your
tours run for 
four 
years.  I realize that every moment you spend in the
White House is 
basically 'on duty', but do you ever get a chance to
just forget about 
it 
all and relax?"

"Well, I always used to be one of those people who
mentally took their 
work 
home with them every night.  I'd be up in the middle
of the night 
thinking 
about something I should have said differently in a
briefing, things 
like 
that."

"What changed?"

"Truthfully?"

"Of course."

She looked up into his luminous blue eyes and said
simply,  "One 
morning, a 
few weeks ago, Donna Moss wandered into my office and
told me that 
there was 
a hot-looking sailor in the lobby."

As her meaning became clear, he searched vainly for a
response, 
surprised 
and flattered.  She continued before she could lose
her nerve.  "I 
thought 
you were like Simon, but you aren't.  Just his
presence was a constant 
reminder of this place, even when he was just watching
me go into my 
building at night.  You, on the other hand, let me be
just Claudia, 
rather 
than the press secretary.  You're the first person in
a long time who's 
allowed me to forget all the constant pressures that
go along with 
being who 
and what I am for a while.  I can't tell you how great
it feels to be 
able 
to do that."

He tightened his hold on her waist, drawing her
closer, and they danced 
in 
silence for a while.  At last he replied, "If that was
your way of 
calling 
me a distraction, it was the sweetest brush-off I've
ever heard."

"You know damn well that wasn't a brush-off.  And yes,
you are a 
distraction, but you're the best possible kind. 
You're keeping me 
sane, and 
that isn't an easy task."

"Believe me, Claudia, I know exactly what you mean."

Hearing him say her given name like that sent an
unexpected thrill 
through 
her, and she was almost embarrassed to discover just
how high her 
emotions 
were running at that particular moment.  If he had
made even the 
slightest 
overture, she was fairly sure she would have dragged
him out to the 
parking 
lot or her office - hell, even the ladies' room would
suffice in a 
pinch  - 
and taken great pleasure in undoing that perfectly
knotted tie.

But he was a perfect gentleman, as always, and before
long, she decided 
she 
needed a break to cool herself down before she did
something stupid and 
irreversible.  Scanning the room, she spotted a
familiar face at an 
otherwise empty table, and an idea came to her.  "I
have a thing I have 
to 
do," she lied smoothly, slipping out of his arms with
a conspiratorial 
smile.  "But how would you like to make someone's day
while 
simultaneously 
helping me annoy a coworker who really deserves it?"

Harm looked wary, but didn't shrink away from the
concept.  "You're a 
hard 
woman to say no to," he observed.  "What do you want
from me this 
time?"

Across the ballroom, Donna Moss was studying her
fingernails, idly 
wondering 
if she should splurge on a manicure over the weekend. 
She wasn't 
required 
to attend this event, and she'd seriously considered
ditching it a 
number of 
times, but Josh had wanted her within reach in case
they had any 
last-minute 
problems with the House Appropriations vote that
evening.  In her 
estimation, it was better to sit through a hopelessly
dull dinner for a 
few 
hours than to listen to Josh's whining for an entire
week following.

"Ms. Moss?"

She glanced up to find a gorgeous naval officer
standing in front of 
her.  
"I don't think we've been introduced," he said
cordially.  "We crossed 
paths 
in the lobby a few weeks ago.  Harmon Rabb."

Donna blinked a few times, then stood up to shake his
hand.  "It's 
Commander 
Rabb, right?  C.J.'s commander?"

He smiled.  "For the evening, anyway.  She had to head
out for a while, 
and 
I'm afraid I don't really know anyone here.  I was
wondering if you'd 
be so 
kind as to dance with me and spare me from looking
pathetic."

Somewhat starstruck, she allowed him to lead her onto
the floor.  Maybe 
tonight wasn't a total waster after all.

As it turned out, Harm had once spent a week
backpacking in the 
Boundary 
Waters, not far from where Donna had grown up, and
they chatted amiably 
for 
a few minutes about the best trails.  Before long,
though, he caught a 
glimpse of Josh Lyman entering the room, noticing the
two of them, and 
abruptly leaving again.  Harm began to suspect that
this little 
escapade 
hadn't been such a great idea.  When the song ended,
he politely took 
his 
leave of Donna, then left the ballroom by the same
route Josh had 
taken, 
finding him on the terrace outside with a stormy
expression.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you."

Josh shrugged fractionally, not looking at him.  "It's
a free country, 
thanks to you and your friends."

"Okay, I can take a hint."  Harm turned to leave.

"What were you dancing with my assistant for?"

He paused, choosing to go with the truth.  "C.J. had
to go off and do 
something, and she thought getting me to take Donna
for a spin might 
piss 
you off."

"It worked."

"I sensed that, yeah."

Josh spun around, fed up with the other man's infinite
calm.  "Is there 
something I can help you with, Commander, or did you
just come out here 
to 
bond with me?"

"I came out here to make sure you understood that I
don't have any 
intention 
of letting C.J. get hurt.  I figured that was your
major problem with 
me.  
But I'm starting to realize that you've got things on
your mind that 
are way 
more important than I am, so if it helps you out to
take aim at me for 
a 
while, go for it.  I know how it goes."

"You don't know how it goes around here."

"Probably not, but if what C.J. says is true, I can at
least 
commiserate 
with you about being the office problem child."

Josh smirked, not buying it.  "I can't see somebody
like you pulling 
the 
kind of stunts I've pulled."

"Try me."  Harm folded his arms.

"I once insulted a key member of the religious right
on national 
television 
out of pure spite."

"I once fired an automatic weapon in the courtroom to
prove a point."

The deputy chief of staff waited, expecting a punch
line.  When none 
came, 
he relented.  "All right, you win."

"I'm not trying to win.  I'm just saying that I'm not
fundamentally 
different from you just because I put on a uniform
every morning 
instead of 
a suit."

Josh hesitated.  "Look, I don't resent you
specifically.  It's just 
that - 
God, this is going to sound immature.  When I started
dating a major 
player 
in women's advocacy, the whole administration started
looking at me 
cross-eyed.  I took a lot of crap, from stupid jokes
to outright 
accusations 
against my loyalty.  Then C.J. brings you in, and
everyone's hunky-dory 
with 
it because you're safe somehow ..."

" 'Everyone' meaning the President?"

He didn't allow his surprise at the accuracy of that
observation to 
show.  
"He's been on my case ever since I let the House
schedule a tight vote 
for 
the night he was going to be in New York.  After that,
nothing I do is 
good 
enough.  I don't mean to sound like an ungrateful
asshole or anything, 
but 
the implication that I give something less than a
hundred percent to 
this 
job is infuriating.  I mean, I took a bullet for this
job, for the love 
of - 
"

Quickly he turned away, not willing to let this
stranger see the 
torrent of 
pain and frustration that he'd nearly allowed to
escape.  Harm 
recognized 
it, though, and the pieces began to fall into place. 
"It's still hard 
to 
think about what happened that night, isn't it?"

Josh dug his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo,
focusing his gaze on 
a 
small corner of the terrace.  "It's ancient history. 
It was two years 
ago."

"It's been twelve years since I put my F-14 into the
deck of the 
Seahawk, 
but it still doesn't thrill me to talk about it."

At that, he turned back slightly.  "You crashed?"

"Calling what I did 'crashing' would be an affront to
crashes. When it 
was 
all over, the biggest remaining piece of my plane was
my ejection 
seat."  
The commander spoke dispassionately, but he didn't
attempt to disguise 
the 
shadow that fell across his features.

"And you didn't take the first chance you got to bail
the hell out of 
the 
Navy?"

"Did you think about leaving the White House after
Rosslyn?"

"No.  Why would I?  It's just something that happened.
 People don't go 
around shooting at me every day."

"I don't crash planes every day, either."  Harm
offered a sardonic 
grin.  
"Although with two Tomcats and a MiG to my record, one
might be tempted 
to 
think otherwise."

"Do I even want to know?"

"I doubt it."

Josh shook his head, still dubious.  "So despite that
press release I 
saw 
earlier, you're really _not_ the golden boy of the
U.S. Navy?"

"God, no.  I've given ulcers to more commanding
officers and appointed 
officials than anyone since Patton.  But I still have
a job, so I guess 
that's the best proof I can offer for the idea that
dedication matters 
above 
all.  And I sincerely doubt that anyone in the West
Wing is truly 
questioning your commitment."

"All right.  Maybe we can get along after all."

"Glad to hear it."  Harm held out his hand, and Josh
shook it firmly.  
"But 
just for the record, I am a damn good pilot."

"Now that we've gotten that straight, are you going to
tell me what 
exactly 
is going on with you and C.J.?"

"I would, if I understood it myself."

"Welcome to life in politics.  Let's go track down our
dates."

By the time they returned to the ballroom, the crowd
was beginning to 
thin 
out.  C.J. had been cornered by an eager reporter from
the Chicago 
Sun-Times, and she was desperately looking for a way
out.  After 
explaining 
for the third time that no, there would be no policy
announcements made 
tonight, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked
up to see a very 
welcome interruption.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to interrupt, but you're needed in
the Communications 
bullpen," Harm said solemnly, with only the slightest
twinkle of 
amusement 
in his eye.  C.J. inwardly breathed a sigh of relief
and quickly 
followed 
him out of the room, heading toward her office.

"You have great instincts," she told him once they
were out of sight 
from 
the crowd.  "I swear, there are people who just can't
take hints.  It's 
practically midnight, everyone's going home, and this
guy thinks he's 
going 
to witness some historic event and scoop the world."

"Gotta admire his tenacity, though."

"Not when it irritates me this much, I don't."  She
shut her office 
door 
behind them and leaned against it.  "Sorry.  This has
just been a 
never-ending day."

"Well, I think you can probably relax now."

"Knock on wood when you say that."  She rolled her
neck around to 
stretch 
and promptly caught her earring on the strap of her
dress.  "Oww!  Damn 
it 
..."

"Don't move.  I'll get it."  He was at her shoulder in
one stride, 
gently 
easing the long twist of gold out of her ear and
disengaging it from 
the 
fabric.

"Thanks," she said apologetically, cursing her
clumsiness - until she 
became 
aware that his hand still lingered against the curve
of her neck, and 
that 
he was close enough for her to sense the tension
radiating from him.

"C.J.," he began hesitantly, "would it be completely
out of line for me 
to - 
"

"No," she replied emphatically.  "However that
sentence ends, the 
answer is 
no."

In response, he drew her in and captured her lips with
a brief, burning 
kiss.  "You sure about that answer?"

"I am now," she said, trying not to sound breathless. 
"We should, ah, 
probably discuss this someplace other than my office,
though."

"I don't think this is a typical coffeehouse
discussion topic."

"Whose apartment is closer?"

"Probably mine."

"Then lead on."

It was a relatively short drive, but as she forced
herself to focus on 
the 
taillights of his SUV, it seemed positively
interminable.  When she 
finally 
swung her car into the alley, her pulse was racing so
badly that she 
barely 
noticed how menacing his neighborhood looked.  She
climbed out of the 
car as 
he stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame in
a casual way that 
belied both his formal attire and the intense
expression in his eyes.

They rode the elevator in near-silence until it came
to a halt.  "It's 
not 
as bad as it looks," Harm remarked, shoving the gates
open with an 
embarrassed gesture at the dingy hallway.  Within
moments, though, he'd 
unlocked the door, and she understood what he meant. 
As she admired 
the 
sleek, open design of the apartment, he tossed his
cover on a shelf and 
reached up to yank his tie loose.  "So what exactly
are we here to 
discuss?"

"I was more or less using the word 'discuss' as a
euphemism."  She 
stepped 
toward him and traced his medals with two long
fingers.  "You're as 
tired of 
wondering about us as I am, right?  What else is there
to talk about?"

"Maybe nothing.  I don't know.  I haven't been able to
think straight 
since 
you walked into the foyer in that dress five hours
ago."

"You did an admirable job of hiding it."

"Control is an aviator's lifeblood."  The last word
was almost 
swallowed as 
she returned the earlier kiss, pulling his jacket down
from his 
shoulders at 
the same time.  He responded by pulling her into his
powerful embrace, 
his 
touch searing her bare shoulders.  Yet she still
sensed that he was 
reining 
himself in to a certain extent, and she couldn't
truthfully say that it 
surprised her.

It was like a game of chicken: each seemed to be
waiting to see whether 
the 
other would flinch.  Predictably, it wasn't her. 
"C.J.," he managed to 
say, 
pulling away ever so slightly, "come on, we can't ..."

She stood her ground and studied the snug fit of his
pants with a 
cocked 
eyebrow.  "All evidence to the contrary," she replied
calmly, watching 
the 
tips of his ears turn pink at her insinuation.

"Seriously.  You're on the rebound."

"Explain to me how I can be on the rebound from
someone I never had a 
chance 
to date."

"You cared about him."

"You care about your partner, too, but you don't see
me putting on the 
brakes."  The veiled horror that flickered across his
features made her 
wince.  "Shit.  That was really the wrong topic to
bring up right now, 
wasn't it?"

"I'll say."  He turned away, trying to get a better
hold on his 
emotions, 
and she steeled her nerves for the charge ahead.

"Harm, it's pretty obvious that we're both wondering
about this, and if 
we 
don't do anything about it, there's always going to be
these questions 
between us that we won't know how to answer.  We're
both responsible, 
unattached adults, so why can't we just treat this as
an experiment?  
If it 
works, life is good, and if it doesn't, we go back to
where we were - "

"That concept never turns out as well as it's supposed
to."

"You know this from experience?"

He shot her a look that plainly said *Are you
kidding?*  But some part 
of 
him relented, and she seized the opportunity.  "Look,
I'm well aware 
that 
there's a very strong possibility of this not working.
 The odds of my 
life 
being able to accommodate you and yours being able to
accommodate me 
are 
fantastically slim -- but right now, I'm willing to
take the chance, 
just to 
finally _know_.  I guess what I'm saying is, if you're
still my friend 
tomorrow, that's all I need."

"And if it's just tonight?"

"Then it's just tonight.  And I'll be able to say I
banged a fighter 
pilot." 
  He barely cracked a smile at the comment, but she
stepped out of her 
heels 
and folded her arms under her breasts.  "Take a break
from being so 
noble.  
I'm a big girl."

They stared each other down for a long moment.  Then,
decisively, he 
reached 
for her -


** End Part 4/7 **

(Hey, don't get mad!  I'm not leaving you hanging, I
swear ...)


(start Part Five)

-- and just before they could touch, the shrill
whistle of a pager cut 
through the silence, sending whatever chance they'd
had crashing to the 
floor.

"If that's not an omen, I don't know what is," Harm
muttered under his 
breath as C.J. rifled through her purse.  When she
located the 
offending 
pager and checked the number, her face fell.

"It's Josh."

Reading the look on her face, he observed, "I'm
guessing that this 
can't be 
good, coming at ten minutes after midnight."

"It could be any one of a half-dozen things."

"Are any of them good?"

"No."  C.J. raked a hand through her hair.  "I can't
find my damn cell 
phone.  Can I - "

"Go ahead."  He started to hand her his phone, but it
rang, startling 
them 
again.  Looking apologetic and anxious at the same
time, he answered it 
while she resumed the search for her own phone.

"Rabb."

She heard only a couple of 'aye, sir's before she had
to tune him out, 
putting her cell to her ear.  "Josh?  What's going
on?"

Instantly, the deputy chief of staff's tone told her
just how serious 
this 
call was.  After the countless battles they'd fought
together, she 
could 
read him like a book, and what she heard in his voice
sent a spike of 
fear 
straight through her.

"There's a credible threat."

Later, she'd remember that she could actually feel the
blood rushing 
away 
from her face at that moment.  "What?" she whispered. 
"What kind of 
threat?"

"A Boeing 757 took off from Toronto approximately half
an hour ago, 
heading 
for Paris.  Sixteen minutes ago, it disappeared from
radar after making 
a 
sharp southward turn.  Nobody knows what's going on,
but wherever it's 
headed, it's going there with an ocean's worth of
fuel."

"Oh, Jesus ..."

"The NAOC plane is at Andrews.  We're putting the
President and 
whatever 
senior staff we can find on it.  How fast can you get
here?"

"To Andrews?"  Her mind raced frantically, trying to
recall exactly 
where 
she was.  "Um, twenty minutes or so."

"Make it fifteen if you can."

"I can."

"C.J., this is for real.  We won't wait."

"Then stop talking to me so I can get in the car, all
right?"

"All right.  I'll brief you once we're in the air."

She hit 'end' and turned back to Harm just as he did
the same.  Each 
recognized the other's expression as a mirror image,
and she knew he'd 
just 
received the same news.

"I have to go to Andrews for emergency combat air
patrol," he reported 
shortly, already heading for his closet.

"_I_ have to go to Andrews to join the President."

"I suppose car-pooling is out of the question?"

She watched him for a few seconds, as he pulled a
drab-green flight 
suit out 
of a drawer with one hand and deftly unbuttoned his
dress shirt with 
the 
other. "Harm," she began slowly, "if all this turns
out to be exactly 
what 
it sounds like ... you might have to shoot down an
airliner tonight."

"Don't say that.  I have to be able to think in terms
of threat 
potential, 
or I'll never get through it.   The Air Force is
covering the District 
- 
we're going to escort the NAOC plane, which I'm
assuming you're going 
to be 
on."

"If I can get to Andrews in fifteen minutes, I am."

He was into the flight suit before she even realized
he'd ever been 
undressed.  The electricity that had existed between
them only minutes 
before had dissipated, leaving only quiet shock in its
place.  "Come 
on," he 
told her, a mask of deadly calm overtaking his
handsome features.  "I 
can 
drive the fastest route from here to Andrews in my
sleep.  Just follow 
me."

Once they arrived at the gates of Andrews Air Force
Base, she quickly 
lost 
sight of his car as he veered off toward Operations,
and she realized 
belatedly that they hadn't said any kind of goodbye. 
Shoving that 
bleak 
thought aside, she pulled into the restricted parking
area near the 
flight 
line and hurried as fast as her heels would allow
toward the passenger 
stairway.

Each of the four National Airborne Operations Center
aircraft, 
designated 
E-4B by the U.S. Air Force, had begun its life as a
Boeing 747, similar 
in 
many ways to the planes that often bore the call sign
of Air Force One.  
These planes were not designed to comfortably
transport dignitaries and 
legions of press, though.  Instead, they were
outfitted with enough 
intelligence-gathering sensors and communications
equipment to run a 
theater-wide war.  That was their purpose: to ensure
that the 
government and 
military of the United States would continue to
function even in the 
event 
of a major catastrophe or attack.  Some of the staff
had taken to 
calling 
them the WCS planes, short for "worst case scenario." 
No one would 
admit 
it, but the aircraft's mere existence gave most people
the creeps.  She 
was 
boarding one now for the very reason it existed, and
it utterly 
terrified 
her.

"C.J.," called Josh as she climbed aboard, waving her
toward a somewhat 
subdued area of the cabin.  "You got something to
change into?"

She found it odd that he would worry about her gown at
a time like 
this, 
especially since he was still wearing the shirt and
pants of his 
tuxedo.  
"Sure," she said absently, gesturing toward the duffel
in her hand.  
"As 
long as you guys can deal with my gym clothes.  Are we
ready to go?"

"Just about."  His gaze flicked toward the back of the
plane, where a 
huddle 
of people surrounded a very tense-looking President
Bartlet.  
"According to 
the Air Force and the FAA, we've still got most of an
hour before they 
can 
reach us, even at a top speed of Mach 0.94."

"They?"

Josh rubbed at the back of his neck.  "Oceanic Flight
419.  Since it's 
a 
red-eye, it's not anywhere close to capacity, but it's
still got 
sixty-one 
passengers and crew aboard."

"And they just disappeared off radar?"

"Not responding to hails, either.  And the
transponder's inoperative.  
CIA 
thinks it might be a Qumari response to Shareef's
death, although 
nobody 
really has any clue yet.  Justice is running the
passenger list through 
their database right now, trying to come up with any
known terror links 
or 
Qumari citizens, but the likelihood of that doing us
any good in the 
next 
forty-five minutes isn't great.  All the airports
along the Eastern 
seaboard 
are quickly and quietly getting incoming flights down
and holding their 
outgoing flights until we get this sorted out. 
Headquarters ACC has 
already 
put its entire inventory of F-16s in the air, and
they're doing their 
damnedest to cover the entire coast.  We're getting a
four-plane escort 
from 
the Navy - "

"I know," she said quietly.  He blinked at her,
disbelieving.

"Rabb?"

"Yeah.  Small world, huh?"

"Makes me feel pretty good about our chances, though."

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"We're not 'going' anywhere.  We're just going to stay
airborne as long 
as 
we have to.  Ever seen an air-to-air refueling
before?"

"No, and I'm hoping to keep it that way."

A low rumble from the engines encouraged them to find
seats, and C.J. 
slid 
her pantyhose off without so much as a comment from
the normally 
laconic 
Josh.  After she'd wiggled her gym shorts on under her
dress, she 
leaned 
back in the seat and closed her eyes until they'd
lifted off the 
ground.

"Josh, what are the chances that this is just an
airliner in distress?  
I 
mean, after everything that's happened, would somebody
really be sick 
enough 
to try and crash another plane?"

"There are plenty of people out there who are sick
enough," he 
responded 
grimly.  "The question is, was someone smart enough
and lucky enough, 
too - 
and were they all of those things tonight?"

"I guess we'll know in an hour or so."  She watched
the lights of 
midnight 
D.C. grow smaller in the window and sighed.  "Out of
curiosity, what am 
I 
doing here?  It's not as if I'm going to be holding
any briefings from 
thirty thousand feet."

"You're part of this team, aren't you?"

She turned in her seat to face Leo McGarry, who looked
as resolute as 
ever 
in his own rumpled tuxedo.  No response was given or
expected.  "Then 
you 
belong here," he finished simply.  "I can't believe
they gave us a Navy 
escort, though ...."

"Don't sweat it, Leo," Josh suggested amiably.  "If
the guy can take 
out a 
nuclear missile, I think he can handle flying our
wing."

The chief of staff looked from him to C.J. with
curiosity.  "Your guy?"

"For the sixty-eighth and final time, he is _not_ my
guy," she 
protested 
weakly, grateful for a momentary break from the
situation around them.

"Oh, no?  True or false - you were with him when you
got my page."

Josh had her trapped with that one: if she denied it,
she'd have no 
credible 
way of explaining her awareness that Harm was flying
that night.  She 
rolled 
her eyes.  "Wow, I can see why you were such a strong
litigator in your 
day, 
Josh.  The 'true or false' gambit must work on just
about everyone."

"In my day?  What am I, thirty-nine going on dead?"

The forced banter was silenced when a voice issued
from the speakers in 
the 
center of the cabin.  "Convoy, this is Cheyenne. 
We've got a blip, 
tracking 
south-southeast at altitude two-niner and five hundred
knots.  Confirm 
when 
you see it on your scope."

"Roger, Cheyenne, scanning now," replied an Air Force
sergeant seated 
at one 
of the consoles, his fingers flying over the keyboard
in front of him.  
"Confirmed at twenty-nine thousand feet.  Sentry, do
you have the 
bogey?"

"Convoy, Sentry Lead," radioed a familiar voice. 
"That's affirm.  
Possible 
target at three hundred miles and closing.  Who wants
to do the honors 
first?"

"It's all yours, Sentry.  Give it a try."

"Will do."  Harm's voice was cautiously neutral as he
began to transmit 
over 
standard commercial channels.  "Oceanic Four-One-Nine,
this is the U.S. 
Navy.  You are off course and being monitored.  Please
respond."  Only 
silence answered him.  "Four-One-Nine, respond or you
will be 
classified a 
threat.  This airspace is restricted."

Nothing.  He repeated the warning numerous times on
several 
frequencies, but 
with no success.  "Is it possible we're not close
enough for them to 
pick us 
up yet?" C.J. wondered aloud from her seat.

Josh shot her an incredulous look.  "You want them to
get closer?  I 
was 
voting for farther, personally."

"Sentry Lead, Sentry Three," a younger voice called. 
"Awfully rude of 
them, 
huh, Hammer?  What do you normally do when someone
ignores your hail?"

"Last time the situation came up, I choked the guy's
engine with a 
strategically timed fuel dump and sent him limping for
home," Harm said 
wryly.  "Given that we're dealing with a 757 and not a
Learjet, 
however, I 
don't recommend that option here."

"Roger that, sir."

The apparent lightheartedness of their conversation
was only the 
thinnest of 
facades.  They were gravely serious about their
mission tonight, and 
every 
second that passed brought them another second closer
to a 
confrontation of 
some kind.

"Whoa," said the sergeant, frowning.  "Sentry, Convoy
- you guys pick 
up 
that course change?"

"We saw it," Harm replied tersely.  "Looks like
they're coming our way 
after 
all."

One of the other pilots bit back a curse.  "They're
erratic as all 
hell.  
Whoever's flying that beast is either drunk or - "

"You're mike's all the way hot, Mustang," his leader
warned.  "Unless 
you 
want the President to hear it, I suggest not finishing
that sentence."

"Um, sorry, sir."  The younger man sounded properly
abashed.  "What 
next?"

"Well, there are two possibilities here.  Either they
know we're here 
and 
are heading for us on purpose, or it's just a really
big coincidence.  
So 
how much are we willing to stake on it being the
latter?"

"I'm sure as hell not taking those odds."

"Wise man.  Two and Four, close up on Convoy's wing. 
Greenie and I are 
going hunting."

One fighter from each side of the aircraft peeled off
and headed out, 
presumably toward the mystery airliner.  C.J. busied
herself by 
repeatedly 
disassembling and reassembling her pen, unnerved by
the current plan.  
She 
didn't particularly care to continue the agonizing
wait as the plane 
came 
ever close, but the idea of her friend charging off to
meet it wasn't 
any 
less worrying.  How long could this awful silence go
on?  In her job, 
any 
information was available if you talked to the right
person.  Here, 
there 
was nothing.  The idea that there was no possible way
to acquire any 
information about this plane was both infuriating and
frightening.

"How could they know we're here?" she heard Sam ask
Toby from somewhere 
behind her.  "Is a typical passenger jet equipped to
monitor that kind 
of 
thing?"

"I doubt it, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility
of someone 
sneaking 
some type of transmitter on board in a laptop or
something," Toby 
replied.  
"Besides, we're not exactly running silent ourselves. 
Most 747s don't 
travel with a fighter escort."

"You make a good point."

"Convoy, Sentry Lead." Harm's static-dimmed voice
filtered through the 
speakers.  "We're almost in visual range, so if there
are going to be 
any 
modifications to our rules of engagement, now's the
time."

"Stand by, Lead."  The sergeant looked up, somewhat
anxiously, in the 
direction of the President.  Bartlet had been quietly
hovering in the 
background, and his only response was a slight nod
toward Leo.

The former aviator leaned into the microphone. 
"Commander, this is Leo 
McGarry, White House Chief of Staff.  Your ROE are as
follows.  Engage 
the 
airliner only if it takes a decisive and threatening
action toward 
another 
aircraft of a clear target on the ground.  Otherwise,
you park on his 
wing 
and keep trying to hail him until you hit bingo fuel. 
Is that 
understood?"

"And acknowledged, sir.  Moving to intercept."
*
What a difference a year makes,* C.J. thought bleakly
as she shifted to 
gaze 
out the dark window.  *A year ago, this would have
been handled like 
exactly 
what it is, not like what it could be.  The FAA and
NORAD would have 
done 
their usual aircraft-in-distress procedure, and we all
would have heard 
about it in the morning.  Now, we have to believe that
disasters are 
possible, and act as though they're inevitable.  God,
I miss my 
ignorance.*

"Oceanic Four-One-Nine, this is the U.S. Navy at your
one o'clock.  
Please 
respond or be classified as hostile."

Nothing.  A nervous airman reported, "Sir, they're
closing in on the 
metropolitan Philadelphia area."

"If we're gonna take it down, we can't wait until
they're over Philly," 
Leo 
said under his breath.  "Casualties on the ground - "

"I know how gravity works," Bartlet replied tersely. 
"How long before 
they 
force our hand?"

"Seven minutes, sir, give or take."

"There's far too much 'give or take' in this whole
situation for my 
liking."

"Four-One-Nine, please respond."  Harm's voice was
level, but there was 
an 
edge creeping through.

"You've got six and a half minutes, Sentry," stated
Leo.  "After that, 
we 
have to worry about population centers."

There was a pause, and the lead pilot's next
transmission was tinged 
with 
suspicion.  "Cheyenne or Convoy, can you give me a
flight history on 
Four-One-Nine, from the time you first painted him?"

"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant, puzzled but willing
to obey.  "Just 
give 
me a second."

"Hammer, where are you going with this?" his wingman,
a lieutenant 
commander 
named Dave Greene, asked.

"Check your altimeter.  We're down around angels
two-seven, and our 
sink 
rate is pretty unstable."

"You think that means something?"

"Newer jets are fly-by-wire, but 757s still have
reversible flight 
control 
systems.  I'm wondering if they've had some kind of
power loss and are 
flying blind."

At that, the mood inside the E-4B's cabin changed
abruptly.   "Is that 
possible?" Josh demanded.

He'd spoken to no one in particular, but the
microphone was hot, so 
Harm 
decided to answer him.  "I'm not sure.  I don't fly
airliners.  But 
they're 
flying without wingtip lights, which is fairly
nonstandard.  If 
something 
knocked out their comm gear and their transponder, it
might have 
knocked out 
some of their flight systems as well.  They might not
have any way to 
know 
what their altitude and heading are."

"Or they might have killed the lights on purpose, and
they might be 
descending in order to locate a target," Leo warned.

"Also true, sir."

"Got that data, Lead," the sergeant came back. 
"They've been wandering 
between twenty-six and thirty-one thousand feet, but
except for that 
one 
bank, their heading had been fairly constant."

"Heading's easier to maintain without indicators than
altitude is," 
commented Green, beginning to warm to the theory.

"Sentry Lead and Sentry Three, you're in Philadelphia
regional airspace 
in 
four minutes," said a disembodied voice from the
Cheyenne post.

"Stand by, Convoy.  I've got an idea."  Harm switched
to his cockpit 
mike 
and spoke to his RIO.  "Jake, how's your Morse code?"

"Passable, sir.  Why?"

"Grab your flashlight and start blinking at them.  I
saw it work once 
-- 
maybe we'll get lucky."

"You got it."  The lieutenant retrieved his emergency
flashlight and 
aimed 
it out through the plexiglass canopy.  "What should I
say?"

"Um ... I guess there's nothing wrong with the direct
approach.  Send 
this: 
'Oceanic Four-One-Nine, do you need assistance?' "

Jake complied, and they waited in tense silence to see
if the message 
would 
be acknowledged.

"Ninety seconds, Sentry ..."

Finally, after three repeats and possibly the longest
two minutes of 
his 
life, Harm saw a small, flashing light from the
cockpit window of the 
jet.  
The sender was clearly not fluent in Morse code, but
the simple message 
was 
clear:

S -- O -- S.

He sagged in momentary relief, then toggled his mike. 
"Cheyenne, 
Convoy, 
this is Sentry Lead.  We have received a distress call
from 
Four-One-Nine.  
Request permission from Washington Center to assist
them in landing at 
Andrews."

C.J. closed her eyes with a silent prayer of thanks. 
"Granted, 
Convoy," 
responded a controller.  "Did you receive a radio
transmission?"

"Negative - Morse code.  We just asked the crew to
locate a military 
passenger or someone with stronger code skills to help
explain the 
situation.  Hold on, I think they've got somebody." 
Harm watched the 
light 
and mentally translated the flashes.  " 'On auxiliary
electric power 
only 
... lightning strike.'  No kidding ..."

"Lightning can do _that_?"

"Not ordinarily, but I guess they'll have to figure
the details out 
later.  
Convoy, do you intend to return to Andrews as well, or
land elsewhere?"

"We'll take Andrews, Sentry.  Looks like we can beat
you there by 
enough 
time to be out of your way."

"Roger that.  Jake, send Four-One-Nine two words:
'Follow us.' "

C.J.'s relief had drained all her earlier nervous
energy right out of 
her, 
but she knew the ordeal wasn't entirely over.  "So
they're going to be 
able 
to guide this plane in with Morse code?" she asked Leo
doubtfully.

"They'll fly his wing and keep in contact with the
tower," Leo 
reassured 
her.  "He just has to stay with them visually."

"Just like that?"

"Not just like that, obviously.  If their avionics are
really fried, it 
could get ugly."  When she looked over at him,
chagrined, he shot back 
a 
look that clearly said *What do you want from me?* 
"Hey, you asked."

"Leo, for Christ's sake."

"C.J., I really think it'll be fine.  I'm just trying
to get ready for 
the 
aftermath in case it isn't."

"Right."  Her mind began to spin, putting together
possible statements 
to 
give the press for each contingency.  A heroic midair
rescue by the 
President's own escorts, or a deadly crash not far
from the ghosts of 
last 
September?  Either way, she didn't dare tell the world
how close 
Oceanic 419 
had come to being shot down.

As the E-4B descended and executed a flawless landing
on the main 
runway at 
Andrews Air Force Base, the crewmembers and assorted
staffers all wore 
a 
seemingly identical expression.  Relief, but not full
release.  No one 
made 
a move toward the aircraft's doors, even after it had
taxied to its 
assigned 
place: they were all fixed in place at consoles or
windows, expecting 
and 
dreading the events of the next few minutes.

At last, the trio of airplanes appeared from the
northwest, the 
comparatively small Tomcats flanking the crippled
jetliner.  Only the 
fighters were visible at first, since the larger
plane's landing lights 
were 
only partially operational.  As they neared, one
fighter pulled 
slightly 
ahead to make an initial pass of the runway, flicking
his own landing 
lights 
to mark the desired touchdown point and then circling
to rejoin his 
charge.

*Please, God,* C.J. prayed, unable to tear her gaze
from them.  *Don't 
make 
me tell the American, Canadian and French media that
we couldn't save 
their 
countrymen.*

Then, as if in slow motion, the hulking airliner made
its approach, and 
with 
an F-14 on each wingtip to guide its descent, it
gingerly set itself 
down.  
The main landing gear overshot the optimal point of
impact by only 
fifteen 
meters.

The fighters pulled up hard in a textbook
touch-and-go, intending to 
circle 
once more before landing on an adjoining runway.  The
757 jerked to an 
awkward stop near the end of the strip, wisely
choosing not to taxi and 
take 
any further risks.  An emergency team converged on the
plane 
immediately, 
leaving the occupants of the idle E-4B to sit in
stunned silence.

In the movies, this type of climactic event always
seemed to end with 
an 
image of people exulting the success, cheering and
clapping wildly from 
behind desks or consoles.  That didn't happen this
time.  Instead, all 
quietly watched as the flight line personnel hurried
to assist the 
shaken 
passengers away from the plane and into a nearby
building.  Eventually, 
the 
President was escorted down the stairs toward a
waiting limousine, and 
C.J., 
feeling numb, descended behind him with the rest of
the senior staff.

"Shit," Josh mumbled from just within earshot,
noticing the small crowd 
of 
television cameras stationed beyond the barbed-wire
fence.  "We 
probably 
ought to let them in before they start broadcasting
these pictures and 
drawing some bad conclusions about it all.  You ready
to deal with 
them?"

*Hell, no,* a voice in her head promptly replied, but
it was overruled.  
"Yeah, I'll do the first briefing from here.  The base
public affairs 
office 
should be able to set it up."

"As soon as somebody wakes them all up."  Josh waved a
hand toward the 
first 
rays of sun creeping over the horizon.  "So far, I'm
not crazy about 
the way 
this weekend's going."

"Don't come crying to me.  I'm the one who has to go
on TV now.  Tell 
base 
security to start allowing certified camera crews
through the gate, and 
send 
Carol over here with the suit that's hanging in my
office."

"You got it.  Good luck."

As he disappeared with the rest of the motorcade, she
turned her 
attention 
to the row of Tomcats that now sat serenely in front
of the main 
hangar.  
Maintenance crews and flying officers were efficiently
performing the 
usual 
post-flight checks and securing their aircraft without
pause.  Somehow 
they 
didn't look nearly as rattled as she felt, C.J.
decided while scanning 
the 
throng for her friend.

Harm pulled off his helmet, grateful to feel the cool
dawn air against 
his 
overheated skin.  Running a gloved hand through
sweat-soaked hair, he 
accepted a checklist from the young sergeant who'd
inspected his bird.  
It 
was perversely fascinating to watch the pen tremble
ever so slightly in 
his 
own hand as he signed the form and handed it back.  Up
there, he'd been 
as 
rock-steady as ever.  Now that it was over, the
magnitude of it all 
refused 
to remain ignored any longer.

"Commander."

He glanced up to see C.J. making her way toward him, a
picture of 
incongruity in gym clothes and a diamond necklace left
over from the 
previous evening.  *Then again,* he reflected, *I'm a
lawyer in a 
flight 
suit, so I probably shouldn't throw stones.*  "Hey,"
he greeted 
tonelessly.  
"Are you trying to maintain decorum with the rank
thing, or have I done 
something wrong?"

"Sorry.  I guess there's no point in doing anything
for appearances 
right 
now."  She could see the faint creases of exhaustion
around his eyes, 
and 
wondered again how he could willingly accept a role
such as this.  "Are 
you 
okay?"

He seemed to understand the context of the question,
and shrugged.  "I 
did 
my job, and we got a happy ending this time.  Now you
get to do yours."

She followed his gaze to the security-flanked news
vans that were 
approaching the operations building.  "Want to help me
out?  I bet 
they'd be 
way more excited to talk to you than me."

"Sorry, you're on your own.  After I debrief, I doubt
I'll even be 
coherent 
enough to drive home.  I'll probably pass out in the
ready room for a 
couple 
hours, until my CO hears about all this and tries to
hunt me down ..."  
He 
paused in the motion of taking off his gloves, then
looked up at her, 
shaking his head.  "Jesus, C.J., that one was close,"
he breathed.

"I know."

The tension that had come to a head only a few hours
earlier had 
vanished as 
if it had never existed.  They would eventually have
to talk about what 
had 
almost happened, of course.  But not now.

"Will I see you Thursday night?" she asked finally,
not knowing what 
else to 
say.

A hint of a smile flickered across his weary features.
 "Sure."

"Okay.  And by the way - nice job tonight."

He gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, and they
started to go their 
separate ways.  She walked back toward her car,
wondering if she still 
had a 
curling iron stashed somewhere.  God knew the Air
Force people wouldn't 
be 
any help in that department.  After she'd crossed the
road, she heard a 
female voice call out: "Harm!"

Curious, C.J. turned, and saw a striking, dark-haired
woman in a 
T-shirt and 
jeans moving quickly toward the hangar.  She slowed,
uncertain, as Harm 
turned toward her.

When their gazes locked, something inexplicable yet
very real changed 
in 
him.  He looked as though all his military focus was
suddenly 
concentrated 
on holding back a flood of utter relief.  It was as if
the mere sight 
of her 
had done something to restore his soul.

Right then, C.J. realized she'd just met Lieutenant
Colonel Sarah 
Mackenzie.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a low voice. 
"How did you find 
out?"

Mac shrugged with a slight smile.  "I always know
where you are.  The 
AIRLANT deputy called the admiral to let him know that
one of his 
officers 
had been co-opted, and he figured he should tell
somebody."  She toyed 
with 
her car keys, biting her lip.  "You all right,
sailor?" she asked 
softly.

Immediately, he dropped his helmet to the ground and
pulled her into 
his 
arms.  They remained there for a few minutes, holding
onto each other 
with 
no interference from the outside world, and the bond
that radiated from 
the 
two of them put all the pieces together in C.J.'s
mind.  Surprisingly, 
she 
wasn't nearly as disappointed as she'd expected to be.
 Still unseen by 
either officer, she forced herself to move away and
greet the 
approaching 
lieutenant from the PA office.  For some twisted
reason, out of this 
whole 
nightmarish experience, a few things were starting to
make sense.


** End Part 5/7 **

(Told you it was a shipper story.  You just need to
have a little 
faith.)


*****************
(start Part Six)

Thursday
August 1, 2002
Cafe Maria

"You're in love with Mac, aren't you?"

Harm did his best not to choke on his hazelnut coffee
as C.J. slid into 
the 
seat across from him.  Recovering, he managed to look
halfway 
indignant.  
"That's your opening line?  What happened to 'Hi, how
was your week?' "

She wasn't about to be deterred, though.  "My week was
a warp-speed 
blur, a 
fact of which I suspect you're well aware.  Hence, my
small-talk 
muscles 
have atrophied.  Answer the question, Harmon."

*Harmon?  Damn.*  He took a measured sip of his
coffee, then decided to 
answer as truthfully as possible.  "I think I could
very easily be in 
love 
with Mac."

"What precisely does _that_ mean?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, mystified by her sudden
fervor.  "Is this 
about 
what happened Friday night?"

He didn't need to clarify: she knew he wasn't
referring to their 
airborne 
escapade.  "No, it's not.  I know better than to try
and stake a claim 
to 
you based on one isolated non-incident.  I mean, I'm
not apologizing 
for it, 
but in the light of day, aren't we both a little
relieved that nothing 
happened?"

"Probably," he admitted.  "We never would have
worked."

"It would have been fun, though."

"Undoubtedly."  His eyebrow quirked, but there was
little humor in his 
expression.  "I still don't see where you found this
sudden interest in 
my 
relationship with Mac."

She shrugged.  "Maybe because I finally know you well
enough to know 
when 
you're happy, and right now, you're far from it."

With a look of exasperation, he pushed his chair back
from the table.  
"Happy?  C.J., last week I had a 757 full of innocent
people in my 
scope, 
and my finger was on the missile-launch button.  Did
you expect 
comedy?"

"You didn't have to fire."  Even as she said it, she
was aware of how 
weak 
it sounded.

"But I had to be ready to.  In our own airspace, for
God's sake.  I 
hate 
that.  I hate that somebody even has to be in that
position.  Don't 
you?  
When you have to brief a news item about another
airplane scare, 
doesn't it 
terrify you to see what the world's become?"

"The world is what it is.  It's not the result of one
person or event, 
no 
matter how much it may seem that way."

"The world as it is put my good friend in the hospital
with a leg and a 
half."  He gazed into his coffee cup with cold, sullen
eyes.  "The 
world 
sucks right now."

C.J. decided not to make any overt attempt to cheer
him up.  He'd 
probably 
resent it, and she might very well screw it up. 
Instead, she went for 
a 
different route.  "Did you know people who were killed
in the 
Pentagon?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?  That there are people out
there who don't 
like us? 
  That can't really be news to you, after everything
you've done."

"Maybe not.  But I didn't know that they could hit us
the way they did 
... I 
didn't know that they could hit us in a way that we
couldn't defend 
against."

She heard 'I' in place of 'we' in that sentence, and
that told her all 
she 
needed to know.  He'd dedicated his life to protecting
his country, and 
it 
cut him deeply to know that he'd been helpless to
prevent the most 
devastating attack ever wrought on the continental
United States.  "We 
are 
defending against it.  Now that we realize we have to,
we are."

"Our defense looks a lot like paranoia.  The world did
change as a 
result of 
one event, at least for people in this country. 
Especially for people 
in 
uniform.  Our mission changed, so our lives changed. 
It's not just 
something that happened almost a year ago.  It's
ongoing."

She thought about that for a moment, hearing the
uncharacteristic tones 
of 
pessimism in his voice.  Finally, she asked, "You know
what people 
don't 
talk about enough when it comes to September 11th?"

Harm spread his hands wide.  "Since it's getting close
to the point 
where 
people have talked the whole thing into the ground,
I'm not sure I even 
have 
a guess."

"I understand what you mean, but I'm not talking about
the usual 
suspects.  
I'm talking about the air traffic controllers."

"The air traffic controllers?"

"Absolutely.  Think about it.  There are thousands of
vehicles in U.S. 
airspace on any given day, and the moment there was an
indication that 
something was wrong that morning, the ATCs locked it
down.  They'd 
never had 
to do anything like it before, but in two hours, all
the controllers 
across 
the country and in Canada worked together to get every
last commercial 
and 
civil aircraft down without a hitch.  The logistics of
that endeavor 
were 
staggering."

"I remember the days afterwards - looking up at the
sky and knowing 
that 
there wasn't a single plane up there.  It was one of
the most 
frustrating 
parts about it all, because it kept reminding me that
those animals 
were 
preventing us from living our lives."

"I know, but you're missing my point.  The ATCs were
critical that day.  
They were the calm at the center of the storm, keeping
an attack from 
escalating into an all-out cataclysm.  If the system
had failed even a 
little, even at the tiniest tower in the middle of
nowhere, we could 
have 
had accidents all over the place.  But it didn't. 
Even after learning 
about 
what had happened, no one in the control centers got a
chance to feel 
or 
grieve like the rest of us.  They just did what they
had to do.  
They're a 
perfect example of something that really works about
our system."

"I'll grant you that, but no ATC could have done a
thing to prevent any 
of 
the hijackings or the crashes."

"No, but that wasn't what they were asked to do. 
Their job was to 
clear the 
skies so that for just a little while, we could have a
measure of 
safety in 
a time of total desperation.  And they did it.  All
I'm saying is that 
they 
should get some recognition for it."

He watched her for a long moment.  "All right, the
next time I'm up, 
I'll 
thank the guy who gives me landing clearance.  Just
for you, okay?"

Apparently that was all the progress she was going to
make on that 
front.  
She'd shifted him from brooding mode into sarcastic
mode.  C.J. rolled 
her 
eyes.  "If you're going to be like this all night, I
might as well 
return to 
my original theory.  You're in love with Mac because -
well, you just 
are, 
and you're spending all your time with me because I'm
safe, and you're 
being 
pissy right now because you can't seem to convince her
that you'd 
rather be 
with her than me.  Refute that, counselor."

"Would you still be this snarky if we'd actually slept
together?" he 
demanded.

"More so, without a doubt."

Abruptly, he surrendered, sensing that on this issue,
she was an 
immovable 
object.  "Mac and I are a very complicated idea."

"Are you confirming or denying my analysis?"

"Neither.  I'm just trying to explain.  We have this
strange thing 
going on 
where we make sense on some levels, but clash on
others.  There are 
just too 
many questions still out there."

'Have you ever thought about actually trying to answer
them?"

He rolled his eyes skyward, irritated.  "What kind of
sociological 
imbecile 
do you take me for?  Of course I think about it.  I
just haven't gotten 
to 
the point where I'm willing to risk six years of
friendship for it."

"Okay, so what makes it such a big risk?  What exactly
are the 
questions?  
Is it that you're not sure you want it to happen, or
that you're not 
sure 
_she_ wants it?"  He only stared stonily at her,
waiting, until she 
ventured 
an opinion.  "Her, huh?"

In response, he offered a helpless half-shrug, and it
seemed to her 
that for 
the first time, he looked a little lost.  "She thought
she wanted it, 
once," 
he said quietly.  "Apparently that was my shot, and I
missed it.  I'm 
beginning to think I won't get another one."

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know - maybe the fact that she came within
twelve hours of 
marrying 
someone else?"

"But she didn't, did she?  And if I'm not mistaken,
the reason for that 
had 
something to do with you."

"So your conclusion is that she must have really
wanted to be with me 
the 
whole time?"  He shook his head.  "Seriously flawed
logic.  They only 
called 
it off the first time because I damn near killed
myself that night, and 
then 
later it was because they had some problems
communicating.  Everyone 
wants 
to make it into more than it was, but as soon as he
was gone, she took 
the 
first transport out of town.  And for three months,
she barely gave me 
the 
time of day, even when I flew halfway around the world
to try and talk 
to 
her."

That piqued her interest.  "You flew halfway around
the world to see 
her?"

He fixed her with a look of consternation.  "Stop
doing that."

"What?"

"Stop filtering everything I say and latching onto
each obscure detail 
you 
find romantic in some way."

"What do you want me to do, Harm?  Commiserate and
tell you that you're 
right, that she couldn't possibly still love you?"

"I don't know if she ever did in the first place, for
Christ's sake!"

"Sure you do, but that's beside the point.  You're
dwelling on 
something 
that happened over a year ago, and like you said, the
world has changed 
since then.  There's no reason to abandon all hope, so
you don't really 
have 
any defensible reason to be this negative about it."

He reared back in his chair, rapidly nearing his
boiling point.  "Oh, 
really?  I don't have any reason to be negative? 
Would you care to 
live my 
life for a while and then make that assessment?"

She wasn't put off in the least.  "Trying to pick a
fight with me is 
not 
going to change anything, and furthermore, it's not
going to work.  I 
can be 
much more patient than you realize."

"So no matter what I say, you're going to keep coming
back to this?"

"That's the extent of my current plan."

"Even if I try to talk about the Orioles' pitching
staff?"

"Especially if you try to talk about the Orioles'
pitching staff."

He gazed at her impassively for a long moment, finally
coming to the 
conclusion that she truly had no intention of letting
up.  "Well, I 
guess I 
don't have much of a choice, then."

And to her amazement, he stood up and tossed his empty
cup into the 
trash.  
"Good night, C.J."

By the time she recovered, he was gone.  She stared at
the door for a 
full 
minute in sheer disbelief.  *I do not believe he
actually walked out on 
me.  
Jesus.*  Her initial hurt quickly cooled into annoyed
determination.  
If he 
thought that he could avoid the issue by simply
dodging her, then boy, 
was 
he in for a wake-up call.


*****************


Wednesday
JAG Headquarters

	Mac squinted at her computer screen, wondering
bleakly if she was 
missing 
something.  The after-action report sent over by
CENTCOM didn't appear 
to 
contain a single reference to the scouting mission in
question.  Her 
client, 
who'd sworn that his unit took fire in the Afghan
brush the night 
before the 
disputed incident, was either lying, mistaken, or
being hung out to 
dry.

	There was a knock at her door, and she shook her head
to clear it.  
"Enter."

	"Colonel Mackenzie, I hope I'm not interrupting."

	Mac blinked in surprise, then stood up to greet her
visitor.  "Ah, no, 
Ms. 
Cregg, of course not.  It's nice to finally meet you."

	"Yeah, you too," C.J. said warmly.  "This place is
impressive."

	"I'm glad somebody thinks so."  Mac smiled, but she
wasn't entirely 
sure 
what to make of this woman.  "I actually caught part
of your briefing 
the 
other day.  The Oceanic flight really took all that
damage from a 
lightning 
strike?"

	"More or less.  The aircraft had had a hard landing a
few days 
earlier, and 
a tiny crack in the shielding that grounds the
communications gear 
propagated.  The lightning cut right through the
shielding.  The plane 
was 
due for overhaul after about fifteen more flight
hours, if you can 
believe 
that.  Timing is everything."

	"Guess so.  Are you always this well-versed in the
various subjects 
that 
you brief?"

	"It all goes into short-term memory.  Next week I
won't even be able 
to 
tell you what kind of plane it was."

	Mac hesitated, still trying to figure out the reason
for this visit.  
"Listen, Harm's in court this morning, but they'll
probably recess 
soon."

	"Actually, I was hoping to talk to you first.  Do you
have a minute?"

	"Um, sure.  Have a seat."

	"Thanks."  C.J. studied the pictures that adorned the
walls, an old 
Marine 
recruiting poster and a photo of a baby seal, and
decided that the 
dichotomy 
was fitting.  "I suspect that you have very little
tolerance for crap, 
so 
I'm just going to cut right to it.  There's nothing
going on between 
Harm 
and me."

	Mac was caught off-guard, but she was too well
disciplined to let it 
show.  
"It's none of my business one way or the other," she
replied coolly.

	"That may be, but I'm telling you anyway.  Frankly,
at the moment, he 
probably isn't all that thrilled about even being my
friend."

	"He's been giving you attitude lately, too?"

	C.J. had to chuckle at that.  Under different
circumstances, she might 
have 
been friends with Sarah Mackenzie.  Maybe it wasn't
yet out of the 
question. 
  "Yeah, but he's specifically ticked at me because I
called him out on 
the 
reason for it."

	"You actually know the reason for it?"

	"I have a pretty good idea."

	"I'd be really grateful if you'd clue me in."

	"By all means.  He's convinced that he's missed his
one and only 
chance to 
tell you he loves you, and he's decided to sulk about
it."

	Mac's reaction wasn't nearly as pronounced or as
satisfying as Harm's 
had 
been.  The flicker in her dark eyes, though, was
enough to betray her 
feelings on the subject.  Still, she simply gazed back
at the other 
woman 
and asked, "Did he tell you that?"

	"He sure as hell didn't deny it."

	She lifted an eyebrow.  "Is that the same thing in
your world?  Press 
conferences must be rather treacherous places if it
is."

	"Colonel, I wouldn't have come out here if I wasn't
absolutely 
convinced.  
I'm not going to pretend that I understand everything
that's happened 
between the two of you, but I've been listening pretty
carefully to 
what 
he's said lately, and I'm telling you that I've never
heard anyone so 
devoted in my life.  He's being an idiot about it, but
it's you he 
really 
wants.  Believe me."

	Mac shook her head with a sardonic smile.  "It's
funny.  I can't even 
count 
the number of times people have tried to drop hints on
the particular 
topic. 
  You're the first one to come right out and say it,
though."

	"And that doesn't suggest to you that there may be
some truth to it?"

	She sighed, and C.J. saw some of her imperturbable
exterior begin to 
wilt.  
"It's not a question of what he wants," she said
softly.  "It's a 
question 
of how far he's willing to go for it.  As yet, the
answer seems to be 
'not 
very far'."

	"I see.  So what would he have to do to meet you
halfway?"

	"I don't know.  Look, I appreciate what you're trying
to do here, but 
- "

	Another knock at the door interrupted them, and Harm
ducked in without 
waiting for an invitation.  "Mac, I have to go down to
Norfolk tomorrow 
..."

	He trailed off upon catching sight of C.J., and as
the body language 
of the 
two women made their topic of conversation clear, his
expression 
darkened 
into anger.

	C.J. made a flimsy attempt to diffuse his ire. 
"Before you get pissed 
off 
- "

	"Oh, we're far past that point, I'd say," he replied,
a hard edge to 
his 
carefully controlled voice.  He jerked a thumb toward
the door.  "Come 
on."

	Instinctively, she recoiled.  "Excuse me?  Since when
have I joined 
the 
ranks of people you get to order around?"

	"Either come with me right now, or this is the last
conversation we 
ever 
have.  Your choice."  He spun on his heel and stormed
across the 
bullpen, 
not bothering to wait and see if she would obey.

	Seeing how deadly serious he was, she wisely chose to
follow him.  But 
she 
would be damned if she was going to go quietly.  Once
they were inside 
his 
office, the door slammed decisively behind them.

	"How dare you?" he demanded furiously.  "It really
blows my mind to 
realize 
how ready and willing you seem to be to kiss restraint
and maturity 
goodbye."

	"_I'm_ immature?  Take cover, Ace, because your glass
house is about 
to get 
a freaking JDAM through the front window."  She stood
her ground, ever 
defiant.  "For the love of God, Harm, you're so deep
in denial that you 
don't even recognize yourself.  Given the
circumstances, and the way 
you 
essentially bolted on me the other night, I thought an
intervention 
might be 
called for."

"You did, did you?  And did you assume you could just
waltz in here and 
magically fix everything?  You know what - don't
answer that.  Even if 
you 
did, if you honestly thought that was possible, you
still had no right 
to do 
it.  I don't care how much you think you know about
her and me.  It's 
still 
my life, and if I want to completely screw it up,
that's my 
prerogative."

"Well, congratulations.  You've certainly been doing a
brilliant job of 
it 
lately."  Her eyes blazed.  "Some people really do
only get one shot at 
being happy, but you're not one of them.  You have had
one chance after 
another, and as long as she's still in that office two
doors away, 
you're 
continuing to get even more chances.  Maybe they're
not perfectly 
gift-wrapped for you, but too bad.  Take what you can
get, 'cause there 
are 
plenty of people who are worse off."

He shook his head, disgusted with the entire
situation.  "You know, you 
were 
the one person whom I thought would never have
expectations or make 
demands 
of me.  I guess that was too much to hope for, huh?"

"Apparently so."  She folded her arms.  "Don't hold
your breath waiting 
for 
me to apologize, either."

"I won't."  His voice could have sliced through steel.
 "Right now I'm 
going 
to go do some major damage control on my relationship
with my best 
friend.  
Leave, or don't.  Either way, we're done here."

He moved to open the door, but it flew open, revealing
a 
determined-looking 
Marine on the other side.  "Let's talk, Commander,"
she suggested in a 
chilled tone.

Harm drew himself up and gave a short nod.  "By all
means, Colonel."

As Harriet and the rest of the administrative staff
watched, the two 
officers stalked into Mac's office, accompanied by
another slamming 
door.  
C.J. took a deep breath, then summoned her dignity and
walked calmly to 
the 
elevators.

Sturgis wandered through a minute later, perplexed by
the hushed 
bullpen.  
"Lieutenant Sims?  Something going on?"

Harriet only shrugged helplessly.  "I'd say so, sir,
but for the life 
of me, 
I can't figure out what it is."

Inside the office, Mac sat down on the corner of her
desk and faced her 
partner squarely.  "I'm going to let you go first."

"Thanks."  Harm raked a hand through his short hair. 
"Mac, I'm sorry 
for 
whatever awkward position C.J. put you in, and I don't
know where she 
got 
the idea that interfering would be acceptable
behavior, but I'm sorry 
for 
that, too."

"Do you even know what she said?"

"Do I need to?"

"I think maybe you do, before you immediately start
issuing blanket 
apologies as if she were some loudmouth teenager. 
Deciding what 
information 
to pass on and what information to hold on to is what
she does every 
day.  
Granted, she may have overstepped her bounds in this
case, but do you 
really 
think she would have said anything without at least
giving it a little 
bit 
of thought first?"

"She violated my trust," he insisted.  "It wasn't her
choice to make."

"Well, at least she actually made a decision on the
matter.  That's 
more 
than you've been able to manage so far."

Instantly, a deathly silence fell over the room, and
he looked as 
though 
he'd been slapped in the face.  She felt a twinge of
remorse for that, 
but 
it wasn't enough to make her take it back.

"I see," he said flatly, fixing his gaze on a corner
of her file 
cabinet.  
"So I have to make the decision, but it has to be on
your terms?  
Sydney 
would have been acceptable, but not the Guadalcanal? 
Can you at least 
give 
me some kind of code book to work with, so I've at
least got a fighting 
chance at figuring the timetable out?"

Mac stood up, surprised and disappointed in him. 
"Harm," she answered 
carefully, "you're the most amazing person I've ever
met, but sometimes 
you're an asshole and a coward.  If you honestly
didn't want to 
confront 
this, you would have been better off telling your
tales of woe to 
Sturgis 
instead of C.J.  His legs aren't as pretty, but at
least he would have 
kept 
your confidence.  He's certainly had no problem
keeping quiet about the 
time 
I told him I was in love with you."

Unwilling to deal with the stunned, wounded look in
his expressive 
eyes, she 
rushed out, the door sounding one final slam behind
her.


** End Part 6/7 **


***************
(start Part Seven)

Thursday
The West Wing

	"Carol, if somebody from Justice calls, tell them to
schedule a 
separate 
conference in the morning.  I'll push mine back if
necessary.  Also, 
tell 
Martin to draft a piece on the fossil fuel reduction
bill, and most 
importantly, don't let anyone bug me for a good long
while."

	"How long is a good long while?"

	"Six to eight weeks.  But I'll take half an hour if I
can get it."

	"It's yours."

	C.J. shut her office door and collapsed into her
chair, laying her 
head 
down on the desk.  Everything about this week was
getting on her last 
nerve. 
  Usually, she'd be looking forward to this evening as
a chance to get 
away 
from it all for a few hours.  After what had happened
yesterday, 
however, 
she wasn't sure if she should go anywhere near Café
Maria.

	Within three minutes, the door opened, and she swore
softly without 
looking 
up.  "Carol, when I said half an hour, I - "

	"I pulled rank.  I have a tendency to do that."

	She straightened immediately.  "I'm sorry, Mr.
President.  I, ah, 
wasn't 
paying attention."

	"I've noticed that about you lately."  Bartlet
stepped into her office 
and 
quietly shut the door.  "Not that there have been any
problems, mind 
you, 
but you know I don't often wander through here for no
reason.  Anyway, 
it's 
Thursday.  Don't you have a standing date?"

	"Sir, there's a strong possibility that I shot that
entire thing to 
hell 
earlier this week."

	He lifted an eyebrow.  "That clears a few things up. 
Otherwise, I 
can't 
imagine why you would have tried to skip out on the
ceremony tomorrow."

	"I'm not needed at the ceremony, and I don't think
it's much of a 
stretch 
to assume that it'll be just as boring as the first
fifteen thousand 
award 
ceremonies we've done.  I haven't seen Hogan in a
while, and I wanted 
to 
take her to lunch, so I asked Leo if he could spare me
for the 
afternoon.  
That's all."

	"Right.  Because taking your niece out to lunch
certainly has to take 
precedence over watching your boyfriend receive the
Navy Cross."

	C.J. felt tears of frustration swelling in her eyes,
and she hated 
herself 
for it.  "Sir, is it too much to ask for you, of all
people, to take my 
word 
to mean something?  I wouldn't lie to you just to keep
my personal life 
secret.  He really, truly isn't my boyfriend.  I don't
love him, and he 
doesn't love me, and no matter what anybody says or
believes, neither 
of 
those things is going to change.  Can you just trust
me on that?"

	In the silence that followed, her mind raced to come
up with an 
adequate 
apology.  "Mr. President, I shouldn't have said any of
that."

	"Don't worry about it."  He watched her with fatherly
eyes.  "Just 
reassure 
me that he didn't drop you for someone else, or I may
have to have a 
little 
chat with Ron Butterfield's team."

	For some reason, the idea of sending the Secret
Service out after Harm 
finally brought a small smile to her face.  "It's all
right.  He didn't 
drop 
me, since we were never involved.  But he was in love
with someone else 
the 
whole time, and I think I knew it the whole time."

	"I find that hard to believe."

	"Believe it.  He's absolutely head over heels for his
partner at JAG."

	The President frowned slightly.  "C.J., I'm not the
world's strongest 
advocate of 'don't ask, don't tell,' but it is the
law."

	She smirked, partially to cover her sense of unease. 
"His very 
female, 
very beautiful partner, sir.  I made the mistake of
getting a little 
too 
involved with the situation, and there were some
fireworks."

	"I see.  So no coffee tonight?"

	"I very much doubt it, sir."

	Bartlet studied her carefully, a little unsure of his
footing.  
"C.J... 
you're okay, right?  You'd say something if you
weren't?"

	"Yes, sir.  I appreciate your concern, though."

"All right.  But you're coming to the ceremony
tomorrow.  Bring Hogan 
if you 
have to, but you're coming."

	She sighed.  "Yes, sir."


*****************


Friday
White House Rose Garden

	"... Commander Rabb's actions reflect great credit
upon himself, the 
naval 
aviation service, and the United States Navy."

	Harm stood locked in at attention as President
Bartlet pinned the 
medal to 
his uniform amid the polite applause. 
"Congratulations, Commander," 
the 
older man formally, shaking his hand.  "We really are
in your debt."

	"Thank you, sir."

	As the military band played a spirited march, the
ceremony concluded, 
and 
the half-dozen award recipients dispersed to enjoy the
reception.  Harm 
had 
noticed C.J. hovering near the back of the crowd
earlier, doing her 
best to 
be invisible, and he made his way through the crowd
with only a few 
stops to 
accept well wishes from other officers.

	"I missed you at the coffee shop yesterday."

	She stiffened at the sound of his voice, but by the
time she turned to 
face 
him, a cool expression was firmly in place.  "I didn't
think you'd 
come, so 
I didn't bother."

	"I figured as much.  But I decided to give it a try
anyway.  At least 
for 
an hour or so."

	"You could have called."

	"I realize that.  I don't think I can explain why I
didn't.  I'm 
beginning 
to think that Mac was more accurate than even she knew
when she called 
me a 
coward."

	They moved away from the gathering, toward a quieter
corner of the 
garden.  
"She didn't really say that, did she?"

	"Oh, she most certainly did.  And I deserved it, much
like I deserved 
most 
of what you threw at me.  So I'm sorry for jumping on
you."

	"I'm sorry for forcing your hand."  C.J. dropped her
gaze to the new 
medal 
gleaming against his dress white tunic.  "This changes
things, you 
know.  
From here on out, whenever your name is mentioned, you
won't just be 
Harmon 
Rabb, Jr. or even Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.  You'll
be Navy Cross 
recipient 
Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr."

	"Somehow that sounds a lot more impressive than it
feels."  His eyes 
swept 
over the open area.  "You wouldn't think I could be
this mixed up right 
now, 
would you?  They don't give out too many medals for
thoroughly 
alienating 
two of your best friends with one blow."

	"You haven't done that.  I'm here talking to you,
aren't I?"  She 
followed 
his gaze long enough to confirm her suspicions.  "And
Mac at least came 
to 
the ceremony."

	He immediately pulled his gaze away from Mac, who was
standing with 
the 
admiral and studiously examining her shoes.  "She had
to come.  It was 
required."

	"You are still in denial.  God."

	When she didn't volunteer anything further, he
tentatively decided to 
shift 
the topic.  "So I've been theorizing as to the reasons
behind your 
dogged 
persistence about all this, and I wonder if I'm on the
right track."

	The uneasiness she'd been stubbornly ignoring began
to resurface.  
"What 
does it matter?  I got a little overzealous.  Do we
have to relive it?"

	"No, we probably don't.  But to quote a friend of
mine, 'I finally 
know you 
well enough to know when you're happy, and right now
you're not.' "  He 
kept 
his voice even.  "You were right.  I've had plenty of
chances, and I 
guess 
that must look pretty horrible to someone whose chance
was stolen from 
her."

	"Don't try to draw parallels that don't exist.  Simon
wasn't anything 
like 
Mac is to you."

	"I understand that.  But you'll never know if that's
what he could 
have 
been, and I'm sure that still hurts."

	She swallowed hard around the lump forming in her
throat.  She wanted 
to be 
angry at him for dredging all this up, but it didn't
work.  He was 
right, 
and at some point, she'd have to admit it.

	"Do we have to do this right now?" she whispered.

	"I'm sorry.  I just wanted to offer up my own
experience as living 
proof 
that there will be other chances.  And now that I
have, I'll shut up 
and 
leave you alone for a while."

	He turned to leave, but she called after him.  "So
what are you going 
to 
do?"

	"Now, you mean?"

	"Yeah.  Are you going to walk over there and kiss the
hell out of her, 
or 
what?"

	"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

	"Yes, please," she said politely, earning a
full-power grin.  
"Seriously.  
I think that seeing all this actually work out for you
would go a long 
way 
toward improving my current outlook on the world. 
Isn't that a good 
enough 
reason?"

	His smile faded slightly.  "Not today, C.J.," he said
quietly.  "I 
will 
tell her everything - I promise - but after yesterday,
I think I'd 
better 
tread carefully for a while."

	"I guess I can live with that."  Out of the corner of
her eye, she saw 
Charlie signaling to her, and she looked apologetic. 
"That's my cue.  
I'll 
try to catch up to you later, all right?"

	"All right.  And C.J.?"

	She glanced back, questioning.

	"Thanks."

	"For kicking your ass?"

	"Among other things."

	"My pleasure."

	She made her way over to the veranda, where President
Bartlet was 
watching 
the reception in relative privacy.  "You called, sir?"

	"I did indeed," he replied, in a pleasant tone that
immediately made 
her 
suspicious.  "Come people-watch with me, Claudia. 
It's fascinating to 
observe human behavior.  For example, I observe that
Commander Rabb 
looks 
rather depressed for a man who just received the
second-highest 
decoration 
this country can bestow.  Care to comment?"

	"You're really getting into this little melodrama,
aren't you?"

	"Well, they say people in high-stress vocations
should have hobbies, 
and 
since no one wants to play chess with me anymore ..."

	"All right, I give.  Remember what I said about his
partner?"

	"I do.  And just for the record, I took you entirely
at your word, 
because 
you asked me to."

	C.J. just shook her head, not bothering to wonder
what had put her 
boss in 
such a capricious mood.  When he got like this, it was
usually best to 
just 
ride it out.  "She's standing over there.  The
dark-haired Marine.  
Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie."

	"Ah.  She doesn't look overly happy, either."

	"I think they're having a slight disagreement."

	"What makes you think that?"

	She considered trying to stall or sidetrack him, but
thought better of 
it.  
"Possibly the fact that I inadvertently caused it." 
And with the 
skills 
learned over three years in the pressroom, she
summarized her knowledge 
of 
Harm and Mac together, ending with her argument with
Harm on the 
matter.  
The President listened thoughtfully.

	"You shifted your attack from him to her, and it blew
up."

	"Well, to be fair, I'm not sure I was doing anyone
any favors with my 
first 
approach, either."

	He nodded sagely.  "You tried him alone, and you
tried her alone.  
Seems to 
me that there's an obvious next step here.  Come on."

	He moved toward the steps, and as his intentions
became clear to C.J., 
her 
eyes grew huge.  "Sir, you're not serious."

	"Watch and learn, grasshopper ..."

	*Oh, shit.  Harm's gonna kill me.*  Praying for a
lightning bolt from 
the 
sky, she hurried after him.

	Harm, meanwhile, was about six seconds away from
banging his head 
against a 
wall.  All he wanted to do was find Mac and apologize,
but every time 
he 
took a step, some general or senator always waylaid
him.  He was well 
aware 
that their interest in him extended no further than
the medal he now 
wore, 
but he also knew how the game was to be played, so he
suffered through 
the 
interminable, self-serving chats with a tight smile.

	Every delay chipped away at his resolve until he
honestly wasn't even 
sure 
what to say to Mac anymore.  He'd already screwed up
by not going after 
her 
yesterday and sorting the whole thing out right then
and there.  In his 
defense, her last comment had knocked him back about a
mile, but that 
was 
hardly an acceptable excuse.  For the past day or so,
they'd found ways 
to 
avoid speaking to each other directly, and although he
was fairly 
convinced 
that the blame once again lay with him, he couldn't
shake some nagging 
doubts.

	What had her exact wording been?  "He's certainly had
no problem 
keeping 
quiet about the time I told him I was in love with
you."  Jesus.  If 
she'd 
been aiming to make an impact, she'd done it with
style.  But what did 
it 
really mean, once all the smoke cleared?  Did her use
of the word 'was' 
imply that she'd previously been in love with him -
but no longer was - 
or 
did it simply refer to her previous conversation with
Sturgis?  Never 
before 
had he been so exceptionally frustrated with the
limitations of the 
English 
language.

	Either way, he at least had to talk to her.  The
silence, the absence 
of 
their usual comfortable interactions, was driving him
insane.

	When he finally reached her, the instant tension
prompted Sturgis and 
the 
admiral to offer their congratulations and quickly
take their leave.  
Mac 
faced him calmly, and it struck him once again how
magnificent she 
looked in 
her dress blues.  "I hope you haven't come looking for
your kiss."

	He flinched inwardly at that, but only lifted an
eyebrow.  "An asshole 
and 
a coward I may be, but no one has ever accused me of
being dumb."

	A faint look of guilt flitted across her graceful
features.  "That was 
probably a little harsher than necessary, I'll admit."

	"Understandable, though."

	She sighed.  "That makes one of us."

	"Mac, I'm trying to apologize here."

	"And then what?  We go back to the way things were,
like always?  I 
don't 
know if you've noticed this, Harm, but every time we
go through this 
routine, we slip a little further away from 'the way
things were.' "  
It 
broke her heart to have to continue, but she forced
herself to meet his 
gaze.  "And I realize now that I've been hoping for
more than you're 
willing 
to give, so - "

	"I never said that," he protested reflexively,
shocked that she'd come 
to 
that conclusion.

	Her response was quiet and tinged with sadness.  "I
know.  But you 
can't 
seem to make yourself say anything else, either."

	As she turned away, his mind went into a full-blown
panic.  This was 
it.  
He was really going to lose her if he didn't find some
way to shake off 
his 
long-standing verbal and emotional paralysis.  The
balance of his life 
might 
very well hang on the words he chose next.

	"Commander Rabb.  I haven't yet had the chance to
offer my personal 
congratulations."

	Both officers froze as their commander in chief
approached.  "Thank 
you, 
sir," Harm said awkwardly, feeling trapped.  "It's a
great honor."

	"Yeah, I can see how thrilled you are."  As the
younger man blinked, 
C.J. 
mouthed the words *I'm so sorry* from her place behind
the President.  
"Colonel Mackenzie, I presume?"

	Mac recovered from her surprise enough to answer,
"Yes, sir.  How did 
you - 
"

	"I'm well informed.  Walk with me, you two."

	Utterly confused, they fell into step behind him,
casting wary glances 
at a 
helpless C.J.  Bartlet stopped near the terrace steps
and leveled a 
piercing 
stare on Harm.  "Now then.  Commander, I asked you
once before to give 
me 
honest answers to some blunt questions, and you did
very well.  Can I 
rely 
on you to do the same here?"

	"I very much doubt that I have a choice, sir, so
yes."

	"Fair enough.  C.J.'s been taking a bit of a beating
from the boys' 
club 
around here lately.  Nobody will believe her when she
insists that you 
and 
she are not in fact dating.  As proof, she informed me
that you're in 
love 
with Colonel Mackenzie.  Is that the case?"

	Mac looked stunned, while C.J. looked mortified. 
Somehow, though, in 
that 
moment, a bizarre sense of calm overtook Harmon Rabb,
and it compelled 
him 
to answer with only the slightest pause.

	"Yes, sir, it is."

	Mac stood very still, as if afraid of doing something
to shatter what 
must 
certainly have been an illusion.  But Bartlet wasn't
finished.  "I'm 
assuming, based on reactions, that you haven't seen
fit to mention this 
to 
her before today?"

	"Not as such, sir."

	"Any particular reason why?"

	Harm stared straight ahead, conscious of the scrutiny
he faced from 
all 
sides.  "Fear, Mr. President."

	"Fear?"

	"Yes, sir.  I've been afraid of destroying the
truest, deepest kind of 
friendship that exists.  I've been afraid of being
separated by duty, 
and 
even of leaving her in the way servicemen in my family
typically do.  
Mainly, though, I've been afraid that she might not
need me as 
desperately 
as I need her, and I've held back from ever knowing
for sure because I 
do 
know that I'd be completely lost without her in my
life."

	The sounds of the reception still lingered in the
background, but 
right 
there on the steps of the White House, there was
absolute silence.  He 
summoned his courage and looked over at Mac, surprised
to see tears 
glistening in her eyes.  Bartlet watched both of them
for a moment, 
bemused. 
  "Okay," he said finally.  "To be honest, C.J., I
still didn't 
entirely 
believe you until just now.  Colonel, may we infer
from your expression 
that 
you view the commander's fears as baseless?"

	Her voice trembled ever so slightly as she replied. 
"Not baseless, 
sir.  
In fact, they make a lot of sense.  But that last one
... I'd be 
willing to 
spend some time proving that one wrong."

	They continued to stare at each other, while C.J.
slowly recovered her 
dignity.  "Harm, I swear to God that all I was trying
to do was show 
them 
you weren't my boyfriend - "

	"I don't think that's his primary concern right now,"
the President 
commented wryly.  "Commander, Colonel, it's been a
delight.  I suggest, 
for 
the sake of decorum, that you wait until about ten
seconds after I 
leave to 
start climbing down each other's throats.  Come, C.J.,
our revels here 
are 
ended ..."

	They moved away with as much speed as the President
of the United 
States 
could publicly display, leaving Harm and Mac
effectively alone.  
Attempting 
a mischievous grin, Mac began to count aloud.  "One,
two - "

	The rest vanished as he swept her into her arms and
silenced her with 
a 
world-altering kiss.  "Ten," he said breathlessly when
they broke for 
air at 
last.

	"Nobody's going to believe us if we try to tell this
story."

	"No kidding.  I can hear it now: 'How did you two
finally get 
together?' 
'Oh, by executive order.' "

	"Hey, whatever works."

	"You've got that right."  He gently brushed an errant
tear from her 
cheek 
with his thumb.  "We've still got some topics to
cover, of course."

	"Can you give me a preview?"

	"I suppose so."  Leaning in, he spoke softly into her
ear.  "How about 
'I 
love you'?"

	She laughed a little, choked off by a
barely-suppressed sniffle.  
"That's a 
pretty good start.  You think we could sneak out of
here without the 
admiral 
catching us?"

	"Lead on, Marine."

	A few yards away, C.J. sneaked a discreet glance in
their direction 
and had 
to smile.  As bizarre as it was, there was something
adorable in that 
scene, 
and it gave her a kind of optimism she hadn't felt in
a long, long 
time.

	"C.J., c'mere," Toby's voice beckoned from behind
her.  "We need you 
to 
settle a bet."

	"She's gonna side with me," Sam insisted.

	"She's an educated, worldly woman, so I find that
unlikely ..."

	She shook her head and went to join her coworkers. 
There was nothing 
even 
remotely normal about her life at the moment, but at
the same time, she 
was 
pretty satisfied with it.


****************


A few months later, on a Thursday ...


	"For the last time, Josh, I'm dealing with it first
thing in the 
morning, 
all right?  We just won an election, for God's sake. 
I think the party 
leadership will sleep fine tonight without me calling
the entire press 
corps 
back in to announce a new fuel-cell initiative."  C.J.
sipped her 
coffee and 
listened patiently to the perpetually high-strung
voice coming through 
her 
cell phone.  "Josh, the only comment anyone is going
to get out of me 
right 
now is 'Good night.'  So listen to me very carefully:
good night."

	With a small amount of satisfaction, she clicked the
phone off and 
tossed 
it into her bag.  Café Maria was getting more and more
crowded every 
time 
she came in here.  And they'd changed their Thursday
special a few 
weeks 
back, but she and Harm had gotten so comfortable with
their routine 
that 
they hadn't had the heart to switch nights.  The
routine got broken 
frequently, of course: they both traveled enough to
throw it out of 
whack on 
a regular basis.  But when they did find time to
connect, it was time 
extremely well spent.

	And tonight he was late.  By a good twenty minutes,
which wasn't his 
style 
- he usually called to give her a heads-up if he'd
been detained.  With 
a 
mixture of annoyance and amusement, she retrieved her
phone and dialed 
a 
familiar number.  Receiving only the answering
machine, she said, 
"Harm, if 
you're at home playing 'storm the beaches' with Mac,
you are really in 
for 
it ..."

	A shadow fell across her table, so she quickly ended
the call before 
glancing up - and practically did a double take.  The
man who stood 
there 
was definitely not Harm, but he was tall, strikingly
attractive, and 
wearing 
a Navy uniform.  *Hello,* she nearly said aloud. 
*What have we here?*

	"Ms. Cregg?  I'm sorry to bother you.  Commander Rabb
had to go TDY at 
the 
last minute and couldn't find your cell phone number,
so he asked me to 
stop 
by and express his apologies."

	C.J. found that her throat had gone dry, so she
quickly took another 
sip of 
coffee.  "Ah, thank you, Commander - ?"

	"Hancock, ma'am.  Lieutenant Commander Peter Hancock.
 Harm and I were 
shipmates about a century and a half ago."  Hancock
flashed a smile 
that was 
shadowed by nervousness.  "If you don't mind me saying
so, Ms. Cregg, 
it's a 
real pleasure to meet you.  I'm a public affairs
officer by trade, and 
I've 
been stationed at the Pentagon for a while, so I have
a great deal of 
respect for what you do."

	"Compliments are something I don't mind in the
slightest, Commander."  
She 
returned the smile.  "Listen, since you're here, would
you like to join 
me 
for a cup of coffee?"

	"I'd like that very much, ma'am."

	"Call me C.J.  Have a seat.  There's just one thing I
have to do 
first."

	She excused herself and went over to one of the
café's computers, set 
up 
along the far wall.  Addressing an email to Harmon
Rabb, CDR, 
Headquarters 
JAG, she typed:

	*You sneaky son of a bitch - don't think I'm not on
to you.  I know 
you're 
not TDY, and that bit about losing my cell phone
number was just sad.  
I'm 
willing to forgive you for this little setup, because
I think Commander 
Hancock might be worth it.  But your ass had better be
here next week.  
Tell 
Mac I said hi.*

	She hit 'send' and walked back to her companion.

*** THE END ***