MORE

By H. Lee, hlear8@yahoo.com

Spoilers: anything up to about “Surface Warfare,” as
far as Mic/Mac relationship status is concerned –
other than that, none really.

Rated G

Disclaimers: the usual

Summary: Another fluff fic, warm, a bit solemn, but
basically without substance. 



Lt. Col. Sarah MacKenzie looked up at the knock on her
office door. In the frame lounged her long-time
partner, sometime-rival, Cmdr. Harmon Rabb. 



“Hi, Mac,” he drawled lazily. 



“Hey, Sailor.” She spared him barely a glance before
returning her attention to the brief before her. His
deceptively casual stance and unassuming tone didn’t
fool her; if there was one thing she felt confident in
judging it was whether Harmon Rabb was telling the
truth. At the moment, he was obviously - to her - all
but jumping out of his skin with excitement. 



“You’re here pretty early,” he noted with a shade of
anticipation. It made him sound like a hopeful little
boy, hinting unsubtly in a manner Mac usually found
completely irresistible. 



She refused to bite. 



“Yeah, I’ve been swamped with this Brown hearing the
past few days. I’ve barely had time to go home and
sleep.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Lt. Brown’s court
marshal had been keeping her busy, just not to the
extent she implied to her partner. 



There was a pause from the door, then, “Oh,” said in a
voice tinged with disappointment apparent even to a
casual observer. 



When she turned back to Harm, he looked so crestfallen
she almost lost her resolve. Reminding herself firmly
that she was a Marine with a little more self-control
than a Navy man could thwart with a pout, she pasted a
distracted _expression on her face and scribbled on
the notepad to her right. 



“Did you need something, Harm?” 



“Ah, no,” he answered, backing out into the bullpen.
“Guess I’ll see you later.” 



“’Kay,” she called to his retreating back. Watching
him walk away, shoulders slumped, she bit back an
excited smile of her own. 

 



Harm entered his office and closed the door, fighting
an unexpectedly strong wave of disappointment. Mac had
never forgotten his birthday in the five years they’d
been together. That first year, before he’d even told
her, she’d dug the date out of Naval records and
surprised him with a card and an old-fashioned leather
pilot’s cap, more of a lark than a gift. 



The cap now hung on his wall above the keys to
“Sarah.” 



Well, he reasoned bravely, it wasn’t as if Mac had
nothing to do but count down the days until his
birthday. She’d certainly had other matters pressing
on her mind as of late. That Brown case, for one. An
annoying Australian for another. Harm may have been
self-centered once in a while, but he wasn’t so dense
as to believe the world revolved around him. Not
usually, anyway. 



Still, she’d never forgotten before. 



More than a little sorry for himself, he dropped into
his office chair, suddenly too dejected to accept that
it was only 0845. Deciding to sulk until Harriet came
in and reminded Mac what day it was, he settled in for
a wait and slid up to slouch over the desk. 



Abruptly, his chair stopped moving. 



‘Great,’ he thought as he pushed back to investigate.
‘This is all I need to deal with right now.’ 



He ducked down to examine the crawlspace beneath his
desk. Then nearly hit his head on the drawer as he
jerked up in surprise. Hidden under the desk was a
square box, wrapped in pink and purple striped paper
and topped with a lime green bow. There was a card in
a bright yellow envelope attached, and Harm snagged
it, grinning so wide he thought his face might split. 



There was no doubt in his mind it was from his
partner. It simply had to be; the package, the hiding
place, and the nonchalant attitude simply screamed of
her handiwork. Inanely, he thought to himself that he
would have been happy with just the card and the tacky
box as a token that she’d been thinking of him. He
didn’t really need a present. 



‘What a sap!’ his mind screamed back, and he eagerly
shoved the sentiment aside in favor of the card he’d
pulled from the envelope. 



The picture on the front was of a little dark haired
boy walking next to a lake, pulling a toy sail boat
along by a string. The photo was done in black and
white, except for the faded yellow of the boy’s shorts
and jacket and one red sail on the ship. For a
fleeting instant, Harm imagined the child had Mac’s
brown eyes and his own broad smile, but the image was
appropriately banished before it could take root. 



The inside of the card was blank, filled only with her
neat handwriting. 



‘Harm,’ she’d written. ‘Do something today that you’ve
always wanted to do. You deserve it, and remember,
birthdays provide the best excuses. I hope today and
the upcoming year bring you all the happiness you can
handle. Congratulations, Flyboy, and don’t forget,
your free birthday drink offer expires next week.
Love, Mac . . . P.S. If you want your birthday
spankings, I’ll be around. Even these Marine hands
might not have the endurance for 37, though. Now, open
your present already!’ 



Harm smiled fondly, eyebrows raised at the
post-script. The message was vintage Mac—a little
bossy, a little naughty, generous, funny, and, above
all, caring. If there was one person in the world who
wanted him to have a happy birthday, it was she. To
that end, Harm dug into his present with more than a
little enthusiasm. 



The box was heavy but its contents didn’t move around
when he lifted it to his lap. Cautiously at first, but
with increasing impatience, he tore at the gaudy
wrapping paper until the front of the box inside was
revealed. 



“Wow,” he breathed in reverence, trying desperately to
ground himself with the rationale that she must have
borrowed an empty box in which to put his gift. There
was no way she would have gotten him what was
pictured. 



The manufacturer’s seal at the top of the box belied
that assumption, much to his delight. Still hesitant
to believe, he snatched the scissors from his desk,
sliced the fastener, and opened the box. There,
gleaming blackly up at him from its Styrofoam casing,
was a top-of-the-line automobile GPS system. Accurate
to within .001 minutes, programmed with maps of the
entire continental United States, Alaska, and Canada,
and specifically designed for use in Lexus, Buick, and
Accura SUV’s, it was all his male mind could have
dreamed. It even included an accurate, if superfluous,
traditional compass, and, he noted with some
amusement, a large, round-faced clock with alarm. 



Electronics had always been a particularly well-loved
hobby of his, especially cutting-edge, kick-ass,
install-it-yourself models like the beauty before him.
He hated TV’s and VCR’s and wasn’t much for the whole
computer fad, but he could tinker with gadgets for
hours on end. Mac was well aware of this particular
passion, and as a result, typically got him assorted
gizmos when she ran out of other gift ideas. But his
partner had totally outdone herself this time. 



Harm had no idea how much she’d spent, but guessed it
to be somewhere on the obscene side of exorbitant. She
really shouldn’t have . . . Nonetheless, he reasoned
as he stroked the screen with the worshipful caress of
a lover, it would be rude to refuse the gift.
Incredibly rude. Unforgivably rude . . . God, was that
a cell charging outlet? . . . He’d just make it up to
her with a really killer 33rd birthday present and
every possible meal, ice cream, and coffee between
then and now. 



Resisting the pathetically strong urge to put his
cheek against the console and simply cherish his new
toy, he gave it one last look before slipping it back
into the safety of its box. It was already after 0900,
too late to take the day off and go hook the machine
up. For now, there was work to be done and a woman to
be thanked. 



If they had been one step closer, or one further away,
Harm would have burst into her office and given her
the kiss he’d been storing up for her for years. Given
the nature of their current relationship, however, he
had the feeling such an act would be not only
inappropriate but perhaps even unwelcome. It certainly
wouldn’t go unquestioned, and at the moment, all he
wanted to do was express his gratitude without being
called upon to explain his motives. This was the best
present he’d received in recent memory; the privilege
of accepting it, and of having its presenter as a
friend, necessitated a special kind of thanks. He
couldn’t merely stroll into her office with his
typical shit-eating grin and whip out a few trite
platitudes about the GPS, her friendship, and how much
it all meant to him. On the other hand, something too
ceremonious and sentimental might appear to
over-compensate, or worse, thrust them into an awkward
stalemate. 



‘Ah, the politics of having a member of the opposite
sex as one’s best friend,’ Harm thought with
amusement. 



As he rose to reclaim his seat, tucking the box
carefully back where he’d found it, Mac’s card
fluttered to the ground. Reaching down to pick it up,
he thought of what she’d written. ‘Do something today
that you’ve always wanted to do . . .’ Though he had
as long a list of pipe dreams as the next guy—record a
song, purchase his own F-14, write the great American
novel—there were also a few simple ideas forming in
his mind. Wishes that, while theoretically more
feasible than gaining fame and fortune overnight, were
in actuality just as unattainable. He would’ve liked
to go grocery shopping with Mac. To throw his laundry
in with hers and then help her fold it. To watch her
fall asleep on his pillow. 



Funny, but all those fantasies centered around a
Marine he had no business thinking of in such ways.
Harm brushed it off, reasoning that it was just
because she’d been the one to give him the assignment.
‘Do something I’ve always wanted . . . find a way to
thank my partner . . . ’ 



With a shrug, he pushed the tasks to the side for the
time being and turned to the paperwork that had been
awaiting him all week. 

 



Harm had purposefully avoided Mac all day, waiting
until everyone but the custodial staff left for the
night, anxiously anticipating the impending Friday.
He’d known she would stay late, not only to try to get
some of the weekend workload out of the way early but
to talk to him as well. She’d been looking at his
office door all day and twice had sent Gunny in with a
request for the commander to see her when he had a
minute. Right about now, he figured she would be half
angry that he’d neglected to acknowledge her gift,
half worried that she’d gone too far and he was too
embarrassed to tell her so. 



As he rose to leave for the evening, nervousness
battled with anticipation in his gut. He had an idea
that might kill two birds with one stone, but could
just as easily backfire and blow up in his face. Hands
clammy, he grabbed the duffel bag from the chair in
the corner and closed and locked his office door. The
bullpen glowed eerily with night lighting, though he
knew there was still about a half hour of daylight
left outside. With a confidence he didn’t entirely
feel, Harm strode to Mac’s open door and knocked on
the frame. 



She looked up, not surprised to see her partner but
wary and a little tired. 



“Hey, Harm.” 



He didn’t answer, just stared down at her with a
mysterious twinkle in his eyes. 



The silence stretched until she broke the gaze, her
eyes darting nervously back and forth. “You, ah,
didn’t really come for your birthday spankings, did
you? I mean, I was just kidding—” 



“Do you have any civvies with you?” It was the first
thing he’d said to her since his greeting that
morning. 



For a long minute, she looked up at him,
contemplating, evaluating. She had no idea what was on
his mind. 



“I think I can dig something up.” 



His smile was soft and quick. “Good. Meet me
downstairs in 10 minutes?” 



In answer, she switched off her computer, closed the
folder in front of her, and bent to open her bottom
desk drawer. Without a word, Harm turned and headed
for the men’s restroom. 

 



When he reached the front door to JAG Headquarters,
she was waiting for him, prompt as always, patient as
usual. She had changed into a worn pair of jeans and
an enormous green sweater she’d rescued years ago from
his St. Vincent de Paul donation bag. 



“Harm,” she began when she spotted him down the hall.
“If this is about the present—” 



He barely slowed his pace when he put a finger to her
lips, effectively hushing her, grabbed her hand, and
dragged her outside after him. She looked up at him
quizzically and with more than a little apprehension
but didn’t speak any further. Harm was glad, for if
she’d decided to dig her heels in, he would’ve been
forced to explain. He wasn’t in the mood to justify
his actions; he just wanted this time with her, quiet
and undemanding. 



They walked hand in hand across the side parking lot,
up the grassy hill to their right. The silence became
increasingly comfortable as Mac accepted the fact that
her partner was not going to reveal his purpose and
instead relaxed into the pleasure of holding his hand.
The night’s quiet enveloped them, settling like a
blanket over minds and hearts wearied by a forced
separation that was becoming harder and harder to
bear.

Her fingers wove through his with a feeling of
homecoming, a sigh of relief. Almost imperceptibly, he
squeezed her hand, pressing their palms together. She
squeezed back, soft and shy. This was a first for
them—actually, the first time he’d done this with a
woman since about freshman year at the Academy. It was
more than he had a right to ask of her; it wasn’t all
he wanted. 



Stopping just down the other side of the hill, looking
west over the highway and the town of Falls Church,
Harm turned to Mac, released her hand, and motioned to
the ground. 



“Have a seat, Sarah.” 



*Sarah . . .* He never called her by her given name
when he was happy. Something must be wrong, but
getting information from him tonight was like pulling
teeth, and his eyes said he was unwilling to relent.
She stared at him for a full thirty seconds before
slowly acquiescing. When he continued to tower above
her, Mac’s suspicion turned to frayed confusion. 



“Harm, what’s going on?” she asked, patience hanging
by a thread. 



He shrugged, unfazed, and moved around behind her.
Before she could turn or protest he dropped to join
her, stretching a long leg on either side of her hips.




“Just taking some birthday advice,” he replied
cryptically. His knees bounced up to nudge her own,
and her legs automatically unfolded from their
Indian-style position, straightening inside the
bracket of his. 



It had happened almost without her permission, but
even as she recognized this, she moved on to bigger
and better battles. “What? Harm, I don’t—” 



Her voice quit functioning as he scooted even closer
up behind her. When at last he stilled, her backside
was well and truly wedged between his legs and she had
completely lost all desire to question his actions. 



“I was supposed to do something I always wanted,
right?” he asked, his voice low and soft against her
neck. 



A sudden shudder was her only response. She waited for
him to elaborate, but in the vein of his behavior so
far, he left his enigmatic statement at that. 



Harm wasn’t sure if Mac’s shiver meant she was cold,
but that was as good an excuse as any for what he had
in mind. Cautiously, half-anticipating a rejection,
his arms snaked around her waist from behind, wrapping
securely without squeezing. Like a switch had been
flicked, every muscle in her body seemed to go slack,
and she melted back into him with a contented sigh. It
was all the encouragement he needed; his hold
tightened, settled, and his chin dropped to rest on
her shoulder. He could smell her perfume and shampoo,
feel the brush of her ear against his cheek. The
sensation shot a flutter of giddiness straight to his
gut, yet it felt strangely familiar and incredibly
right to sit this way with her. 



His whisker stubble scraped pleasantly against her
jaw, and she couldn’t remember ever feeling as warm,
as safe, as she did with her back to his chest, his
arms enveloping her. Every breath he released washed
deliciously over her neck, causing her stomach to
quiver so frequently she wondered if he could feel it
against his arms. Crossing her own over them as if he
was a blanket to pull closer around her, she nestled
her head into his collarbone and decided she never
wanted either one of them to move again. 



“I love my present, Mac,” he murmured after a long
moment of trying to breathe her into himself. “Bud was
so jealous, I thought he was going to cry.” 



Mac laughed in surprise, and Harm’s chest rumbled with
a chuckle beneath her. “I’m glad you liked it,” she
said softly, the smile evident in her voice. “Do you
think you’ll be able to get it installed okay?” 



Burrowing his chin a little lower, he answered, “Oh,
yeah. Bud’s coming over tomorrow night to help, in
fact.” 



“Hmm, better warn the fire department.” 



Behind her, his chest shook again, and they lapsed
into silence. He closed his eyes and imagined that he
could absorb her if he just held her close enough,
long enough. She concentrated on the colors of the
sunset, the taste of the late autumn air, the feel of
him surrounding her, wanting to memorize this night,
to hold it in her heart always. Moments like this
between them were few and far apart, but if she tried
hard enough, she could recall each of them with
blinding clarity . . . and she did, more often than
she liked to admit. 



Gradually, she noticed they were swaying back and
forth as he rocked them slowly, carefully. Falling
easily into his rhythm, she brought one hand up to
ruffle his hair, trace the rim of his ear, and felt
his head turn into her touch. His lips brushed the
inside of her arm in an almost-kiss, and something hot
fizzled from the spot to her heart. 



Odd that she hadn’t realized she was this tired, she
thought distantly as her eyes drooped along with the
sun. But each time she rocked back against him, she
seemed to sink deeper, each trip forward drew his arms
tighter around her middle. It was so easy to let her
heavy head rest along his, where it sat on her
shoulder, so easy to give him all her weight and trust
him to take it. Every breath he took reverberated
through her, humming like a vacuum, fading suddenly to
a whisper. Before she could give him any warning, she
felt herself dropping off, her last thought a regret
that in sleep she would miss some of that time she
ordinarily hoarded in her memory. 



Harm knew the instant she fell asleep, going
completely lax against him. He figured a nobler man
might gently rouse her, escort her home, and see her
to bed. But he had never called himself a noble man,
and there was no way he was giving her up so quickly. 



Leaning back a bit on the hill, he cradled her
carefully in his arms and trailed the back of his hand
lightly along her cheek. The tenderness he felt when
he watched her this way had long ago stopped taking
him by surprise and now simply welled in his chest
until he feared it might burst. With all the delicacy
his large fingers possessed, he traced the planes of
her face, the line of her neck. Beside the fragile
beauty of her sleeping features, his hand looked even
rougher and more blunt than usual. It was a contrast
he reveled in; in this, as in most things, she
provided the softness to his hard edges, simplicity to
his confusion. At moments like these, it seemed she
had always done so and always would. 



Sometimes, it was hard for him to imagine himself
without her. At first, he’d somewhat fancifully
conceived of his life as two distinct eras: before Mac
and after Mac. But the longer they were together, the
more he realized the she had touched nearly every part
of his existence, with the possible exceptions of
those mundane aspects such as basketball and model
plane construction . . . although they had played
one-on-one a couple times, and he’d enlisted her help
with the more intricate details of his models on
several occasions. Her presence seemed to touch him
everywhere, past, present, and future. 



She had listened delightedly to stories about every
misadventure and mini-crisis of his youth. Had been
the first non-Rabb to see home movies of a serious
little boy at Little League practice, a brave, lonely
kid at his mother’s second wedding, a gangly, awkward
teenager at his first prom. To Harm’s chagrin, Trish
had a habit of overwhelming his partner with
twenty-year-old trophies, yellowed newspaper articles,
and stacks of photo albums at their every visit. Mac
took it all in, with eagerness and sympathy, and the
memory of a supercomputer. 



In the five years he had known her, she had been the
epitome of friendship, a strong, steady counterpoint
to his frequent flights into unreality. With
alternating patience and exasperation, she had dealt
with his string of obsessions, helped him find
resolution at the risk of her own life. She’d been the
key to success in the defining quest of his
life—finding his father. And she’d been the one to
pick up the pieces after their shattering discovery. 



He liked to think he gave as good as he got, that he
was as staunch a friend to her as she was to him. It
saddened and ashamed him to admit that wasn’t always
the case. Over the years, he’d lost sight of her,
nearly lost *her*, more than once due to his own
stubbornness and self-absorption. And she had always
accepted that. Too easily, he thought now. It never
occurred to her to ask for more, to expect more,
because aside from her uncle, he’d probably given her
more than anyone in her life ever had. What a lousy
crutch for him to fall back on and call himself her
best friend. 



No longer, he vowed as he looked to where their arms
rested, entwined at her waist. This was his birthday
and, as such, not a time for recriminations – those
would come later. Tonight was for resolutions, to
himself and whoever might be listening, about what he
wanted and the man he wanted to be. 



Tonight, what he wanted was more. 



More with the woman in his arms. To give more, be
more, for her. To create more with her. And to
appreciate just how much he’d been given already. 



As if sensing his musings, she shifted closer, turning
her cheek trustingly into his chest. He watched
intently, memorizing the pattern of moonlight across
her features. It warmed as it reflected off her dark
hair and olive skin. Here was his birthday candle, the
most beautiful he’d ever seen. He blew a strand of
hair from her forehead and wished to stay there
forever. 



His eyes tilted from her face to the heavens, just
beginning to light with stars. The hill was silent and
still, and the world suddenly seemed so vast and
uncertain. Harm wasn’t worried; everything he needed
was sleeping peacefully in his arms on the night of
his thirty-seventh birthday. 



Soft and sincere, he whispered, “Thank you.”