Odd Man Out

By: thinktink2
E-mail: thinktink2@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Everything from the 7th season, especially from the 
episode "Odd Man Out" on.
Disclaimer:  Don't own Bellisaurius, JAG, its characters or 
actors, or have anything remotely to do with the show, other 
than being a fan.

Summary:  Come on!  That scene in the breakroom between Harm 
and Mac was just begging for someone to take it and run with 
it.  Who am I to say know to such an opportunity?  This story 
starts right at that scene.  If only the rest of the episode 
had went this way.


*********

I ponder his offer for a moment.  His eyes, always 
expressive, watch mine in amusement, the muscles at the 
corners of his mouth twitching.  He has always been arrogant, 
but his smug demeanor seems sure I won’t guess correctly, and 
yet a little hopeful, as though he wouldn’t mind being proved 
wrong.

Hell, I wouldn’t mind either.

“Hmm…” I say, deciding to play his game.  

Superbowl tickets, I mean, come on.  Not to mention, the 
opportunity to attend the game with Harm.  Just Harm and me.  
A nice day spent together, enjoying each other’s company, far 
removed from work.  Oh, and the game of course.  Too bad the 
stadium is a dome.  Snuggling close together to stay warm in 
an open stadium, sharing a blanket, might be a…

Okay, marine.  Focus.

I run through a list of possible contacts, Webb, Bobbi, 
Renee, though I knew that one wasn’t a possibility.  
Actually, I knew none of them were, but I couldn’t figure out 
where Harm would get such prime seats so close to the 
Superbowl.  

“I thought you were supposed to be sucking up to me.  This 
feels more like a slap in the face.”

“Well, whatever works,” I reply, grinning.

“Try the positive approach,” he advises.  

He wants me to suck up to him.  

Fine.  Two can play that game.  No way is he taking Sturgis.  
Sergei maybe I could concede, but I’m not about to give him 
quality time with Sturgis.  Not after what happened with my 
stupid slip.

“Harm,” I begin sweetly.  The mischievous glint has returned 
to his eye as he gives me his full attention.  “If you take 
me, not only…” I spin some yarn about our friendship.  It’s 
always good to remind one of the important matters in life, 
like spending quality time with your best friend.

“That’s a very good argument,” he says smiling.  I can tell 
he liked the attention.

“Really?”  I’m going to have to break out my number 28 
Marshall Faulk jersey.  Superbowl, here I c—

“But, Sturgis said the same thing this morning.”  He grins 
innocently at the _expression on my face.  

Damn him.  

Harm looks smug as he takes another sip of his coffee.  
Something competitive in me begins to wind up, and I find 
myself unable to concede that I’ve been one-upped by the Rabb 
charm.  Or Sturgis.  

“Did he?” I ask, my voice cool.  An idea is taking root and 
I’m pretty damn sure if I don’t act on it, I’ll be stuck 
sitting next to the Admiral and Bud come game day, and Harm…
well, Harm won’t even remember I exist come kickoff.

Harm nods, and flashes me a wide grin—a genuine flyboy smile, 
that I have every intention of knocking off his sweet face.  

He turns his attention back to his coffee while I study his, 
okay, I admit, very handsome profile.  He’s freshly shaven 
and I can smell the mix of his aftershave and cologne, and an 
image of us tucked away together under a black and red-
checkered flannel blanket huddling for warmth flashes through 
my mind. 

Okay, desperate times call for desperate measures, Colonel.

“Well, I don’t think Commander Turner is quite as persuasive 
as I am.”  

I lean forward and place a soft kiss against his smooth 
cheek, inhaling the sweet, masculine scent of him.  My lips 
linger on his cheek for just a moment longer than they should 
given the circumstances, before I pull away.  We’re in the 
break room for Christ’s sake, and I’m kissing a fellow 
officer, Harm, and--to be honest--not really giving too much 
of a damn.

At least I wasn’t.  

Now, I’m starting to doubt the wisdom of my battle plan.  

Harm is frozen in place, looking much like one of the marble 
or granite monuments that dot the cityscape here in D.C.  The 
Styrofoam cup containing his coffee is poised midair, and his 
eyes have lost their smug twinkle and have taken on a new 
_expression—disbelieving shock.

I grab my own cup of coffee and hurry with as much dignity as 
I can out of the break room, leaving Harm to consider my…
my…”argument.”
*******
I don’t break stride until I reach my office and the door and 
blinds are safely shut behind me.

What the hell was I thinking?!

I mean, do I really want to go to the Superbowl that bad, 
even if the seats are on the 50-yard line, or hell, even in 
the press box?

Who am I kidding?  This was never really about the 
Superbowl.  I mean, yeah, it was a little, but once my brain 
latched onto the idea of Harm and I alone together, rational 
thinking took an embarrassing dive.

What was I thinking?!  

Did I actually believe that the two of us alone in the Big 
Easy would mean anything?  I mean, he’s the one who 
said, “Location doesn’t change who we are.”  The problem is 
who are we now?

Friends, Yes.  Best friends.  Something more?  I don’t think 
either one of us have figured that out, yet.  

Okay, so not entirely true, given what I let slip to 
Sturgis.  I am in love with him.  Some days it seems 
hopelessly so.  Some days it just seems hopeless.

I’ve admitted, to Sturgis and myself anyway, that I’m in love 
with him.  But now what?  We’ve just managed to get ourselves 
somewhat squared away again, and back into familiar—and 
welcome—territory.

And then I go and kiss him in the break room for a couple of 
seats in New Orleans.

Well, and a hotel room—separate from his, of course.  Unless, 
they only have one available.  I mean, with the Superbowl, 
I’m sure nearly all the rooms are booked if they’re not 
already.  And if Harm has tickets then surely he has a hotel 
room already.  How would the logistics of all this work?  
Assuming I’ve won.  How could I not though?  I’m pretty sure 
Sturgis isn’t going to kiss Harm.

Although I bet the _expression on his face would be 
priceless.  My grin fades as I recall Harm’s _expression.  He 
didn’t even seem…pleased by it.  But, then again, I did get 
the element of surprise on him.  I doubt he came into work 
today thinking he would receive a less-than-platonic kiss 
from his best friend in the break room all for some Superbowl 
seats.

I let my head flop down on my desk.

Way to go, Colonel.


********
Wow.

I stare into my coffee, and try to put together what exactly 
just happened here.

Wow.

I can still feel her warm lips against my cheek.  And I 
thought today was going to be a bad day.  First Mac sucking 
up to me, with her sweet smile and her soft voice, but Mac…
Mac kissing me.  Here.  In the break room.  At the office.

She must want to go to the Superbowl really bad.  

I didn’t think she was that big of a football fan.  I mean, 
yeah, sure she yells at the players on the TV, and sometimes 
she throws things--a box of Kleenex, a pillow, my Steelers 
cap I brought as a joke--at the screen, but …

Wow.

I wonder if she’ll be like this at the game.  Damn.  I wish 
New Orleans was an open stadium.  Those seats would be hers 
in a second, no sucking up required.  Not for the opportunity 
to snuggle together against the cold.

Assuming of course, if I actually had real seats to the 
game.  Given Mac’s weak stomach for mach 1+ speed and pulling 
G’s, I’m not so sure she’d be quite so…’persuasive’ as she 
put it if she knew those two seats were in a tomcat.

Damn Sturgis warned me.  “Don’t be swayed by emotional 
appeals.” 

I underestimated Mac.  

I suppose I should tell her the truth about the seats.  

I stare into my coffee cup as though the answers lay hidden 
in its murky depths.  Instead, the only idea that claws its 
way through the abyss is one that obviously has been fueled 
by the emotions Mac’s kiss stirred up.

Maybe, she has a few more “persuasions” up her sleeve.

Hmm.

Well, it might do to have her sweat it out a while.


********
1538 ZULU
Jag HQ
Falls Church, VA

 I can’t believe I kissed Harm.  I mean, we’ve kissed 
before.  At Norfolk, but that doesn’t really count.  Then on 
the Admiral’s porch.  And then again at the Roberts’ 
Christmas party.  Just a nice little mistletoe kiss between 
friends.

Right.

Just like that was a nice little office kiss between 
coworkers.

This is not helping MacKenzie.  Think.  You have to see Harm 
in court in a few minutes.  Do you want to be blushing like 
some schoolgirl?  Like the almighty aviator ego needs another 
woman swooning at his feet.

Besides, like Marines swoon anyway.  

So.  How to handle this?

I tap my pen against my legal pad as I try to think of 
anything other than the smooth curve of his cheek and his 
aftershave.  Brut?

That isn’t helping either, Marine.  Focus.

He is kind of a Brut man.  A little rugged, a little 
dangerous.  What am I saying?

I don’t even know why I’m worrying about any of this.  
Knowing Harm he’ll just clam up and pretend like nothing 
happened.  We’ll avoid each other for a few days.  Then we’ll 
just go back to the way things were before.

I’m tired of the way things are.  I have no idea how to 
change them, though, where I don’t wind up getting the shaft. 

Damage control, Colonel.  You have court in fifteen minutes.  

Locking lips with Harmon Rabb, Jr. isn’t really all that 
adverse to me.  In fact, all three times it’s been a rather 
enjoyable experience.  

Particularly the last two where it’s been a little clearer 
that I wasn’t just the only active participant.  That kiss on 
the admiral’s porch—a Harmon Rabb a little passionate and 
needy.  Out of control.  

Perhaps that’s what I need to win this little bet, or game, 
or whatever it is.  Keep Harm off his balance and a wonderful 
seat next to him will be mine.  

Hmmm…don’t let him know the kiss affected me.  And don’t let 
him know I have anything else in mind beyond winning a 
Superbowl seat off of him.  

Unless he seems receptive to something else.  


********
I saunter back to my office, unable to keep the smile off my 
face as I think about her leaning in so close to me, her 
perfume, in fact my favorite perfume—her Christmas present 
from me—lulling my senses to sleep.  I glance at Mac’s door 
and note it’s closed, as well as the blinds.

My earlier resolve to let her sweat it out is faltering.  

Perhaps she didn’t mean for the kiss to happen.  I was 
goading her on, and Mac’s never one to back down from a 
challenge.  Sometimes we both get carried away.  I should 
just tell her the truth about the seats.  She won’t want to 
fly with me anyway.  

We have court in a few minutes.  I don’t want her to think I—
I—

What?  Didn’t enjoy it?

Do I want her to think I did enjoy it?

It’s not like it was some deep, passionate, kiss.  It wasn’t 
just a kiss between friends either.  Why do things always 
have to be so complicated between us?  Why can’t Mac just 
kiss me—or I kiss her—without all this emotional baggage 
we’ve been lugging around for the past three years.  Why 
can’t we go forward from here?

Is Mac willing to go to this step of our relationship?  Using 
her feminine wiles to sucker me into doing or giving her what 
she wants.  Taking our friendship to a more personal, 
romantic level.  God, I hope so.  I’ve been wanting this for 
a long time.

Maybe I can use this Superbowl thing to my advantage.  I 
highly doubt, given how sick she gets when she’s up in the 
air in a tomcat that she’ll want to ride with me on my 
mission.  Besides, that position belongs to Skates—she is my 
RIO after all—and in the off chance that something does 
happen that needs my aviation services, it might be best to 
have Skates with me.  

Not that Mac was a bad RIO when we were in Russia.  

So, the nice Superbowl game snuggled under a blanket for 
warmth, her warm moist breath against my ear as she comments 
on how great the Rams offense is, is out.   I suppose since 
I’ll be flying back to Pensacola that the nice romantic walks 
and dinners in the Big Easy are out as well.  So that leaves 
me with…?  Not much, by my count.

In FantasyWorld, Mac would be waiting for me in Pensacola 
when I finished providing cover for the game.  We’d go out, 
maybe to a nice little fish grotto in the area, maybe further 
south to the warmth of the Keys, and take a walk along the 
boardwalk.  She’d tease me about how she was right about the 
Rams kicking the Steelers’ sixes, and that I owed her…a nice 
massage which I would be only too happy to oblige her with.  
She would murmur a sound of approval as I began to knead her 
shoulders.  I would bend my head close to her ear and whisper 
something, like “you enjoy that marine?” and she would nod 
her head.  Then I would place one, then two, then three 
kisses along her neck, traveling from her shoulder to her jaw 
and ask, “how ‘bout that?”  And she would nod again, and sigh 
contentedly and somehow from there to five years in the 
future we’d be married and already fulfilled our baby deal, a 
son, with another one, a daughter, on the way.

Alas reality has a nasty way of intruding on this life.  I’m 
late for court.

I bump into Mac as she’s charging out the door.  She’s late, 
too?

“Whoops!  Excuse me, Commander.”  

“Sorry, Mac.  Internal clock off, Marine?”  I can’t help ask.

“Not at all, Squid.  I wouldn’t miss the chance of a little 
pre-trial sparring with you.  Can’t get that if I’m actually 
on time, you know.”

“You mean a little pre-trial sucking up,” I correct, albeit a 
little arrogantly.  I wouldn’t really be all that surprised 
if she kicked my six.

“Doesn’t hurt with the Superbowl at stake.”  She flashes me 
another one of her beautiful smiles, and I swear she’s 
brushing up against me on purpose as we walk to the 
courtroom.  She’s definitely wearing the perfume I bought 
her.  Does that mean something for me, for us, or just that 
she likes the scent of ‘Beautiful’, too?  We’re halfway to 
court before I realize I don’t have any of my files for the 
case.

“Uh…” I begin, not quite sure how I can save face here.  

She stops walking and looks at me and I swear a see a little 
doubt cloud her face, but it’s gone when she looks down at my 
hands and realizes I’m not carrying my briefcase.  Something 
more like glee has replaced it.

“I forgot my files.  I just need…” I gesture back towards the 
bullpen and my office.  She nods in sympathetic understanding.

I swear I hear a snort of laughter as I walk away.

********

She shoots, she scores.  Well, with torturing Harm, anyway.  
It was a nice feeling to get one up on Harm.  The look on his 
face when he realized he had followed me down the hall 
without even thinking of grabbing his notes was worth the 
half hour I spent in my office working on an ulcer trying to 
figure out what to do about that kiss and us.  

He, of course, did win the case, though how he won this one, 
I don’t know.  Actually, I do know.  

Aggravation, thy name is Bud Roberts.

A murderer has been allowed to walk, and now I’m looking 
through Virginia Code to see what I can do about having the 
D.A. take the case.  Hell if I’m going to let a murderer go 
free.

Really it’s not much of a victory for Harm when I know he 
wants the bastard put away as much as I do.  

I take a sip of my latte, and glance at the other one sitting 
on my desk.  I hope Harm gets here to perform his customary 
gloat-after-a-win session before his latte gets cold.  I went 
through all the trouble of ordering it for him.  I can’t help 
but smile at my thoughtfulness.  Soymilk for my health-
conscious partner.  Yet another score for the marine.  I 
practically own that seat next to him.

“Hey,” he says wandering in.  He doesn’t look happy.  Time to 
schmooze and for Sturgis to lose.  

“Hey,” I greet him warmly.  Gloating or not, he brightens my 
office as much as he darkens it.  “I got you something.”  I 
hand him the latte.

“What is it?”  He takes it from me carefully, as though it 
might just start oozing some sort of bubbly, green chemical 
at any moment.

“It’s a soy latte.  I thought you might like it.”  I smile as 
he takes a sip.  His face screws up into an unattractive 
grimace and he practically gags.

“Ugh.  Oh, God, that’s nasty.”  

I manage to suppress the sigh I’m about to heave.  

“Are you always this cranky after a win?”

“Some cases you don’t wanna win,” He says, his face still 
somewhat scrunched up.  Honestly I didn’t think he’d find it 
that bad.  Especially after gut-wrenching fare like his 
meatless meatloaf.  I shudder at the thought, but fortunately 
Bud’s entrance has attracted Harm’s attention so he doesn’t 
notice.

I’m somewhat surprised at Bud.  He seems genuinely confused 
why Harm wasn’t more thrilled with the verdict.  I know Bud 
thinks he did a great service to the jury panel, helping them 
reason out the evidence.  I think Harm is a little frustrated 
with Bud. 

Harm answers Bud’s questions coolly, hands the coffee back to 
me and disappears into the bullpen.

Bud looks at me questioningly.  This time I do sigh.  Neither 
one of us gets the vindication we want.  


*******
Harm’s slouched over in his office, working on some paperwork 
from what I can see from here by the copier.  He hasn’t said 
much since he accompanied Bud and I out to see the 
Lieutenant.  I hope that excursion hasn’t made me lose 
Favored Superbowl Companion status.  

I should make sure he’s okay.

“Hey squid,” I say.  He gives me a small smile as he looks 
up.  I get the impression he knows why I’m here.

“Hey Mac,” he answers easily.  He continues to scribble some 
notes on the document on his desk.

“You feel like dinner?” Dinner’s a good way to see what’s up 
and work my charms for the Superbowl. 

“I don’t feel like beltway burgers, if that’s what you’re 
asking.”

“No, we could go to that healthy place you always go to on 
the weekends.  Tofu Frenzy.”

He stops writing and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Really?”  He remarks with casual disbelief.  I nod with as 
much enthusiasm as I can muster.  “You’re really going all 
out for these Superbowl tickets.”

“It’s not for the Superbowl.”  He gives me a Look.  “Okay, 
not just for the Superbowl.  You’re my best friend.  I care 
about you.”  He gives me another Look.

“What?  I do,” I reply defensively.  Does he really believe 
I’m that shallow?  “So what’s up with the frown, flyboy?”

“Nothing.” He picks up the pen he laid down and starts 
scribbling again.

“Come on, Harm, with your win—okay, maybe not the win 
necessarily—“I amend upon a flicker of long black eyelashes 
and green eyes flashed at me.  “But, killer seats to the 
Superbowl—the Superbowl, Harm—and everyone sucking up to you, 
it has to be a pretty good week for you and it’s only 
Wednesday.”

“It’s had its highlights and downsides,” he replies, a smile 
playing at his lips.  He stares at me with an unreadable 
_expression.  I wonder what he’s thinking and where the kiss 
in the break room falls in those two categories.

“So, marine, are you going to wager a guess as to where the 
tickets came from, or are you going to watch your chance at 
Superbowl madness slip by.”  

“You mean to say my efforts at convincing you I’m your number 
one Superbowl fan have all been for naught?”

“The latte set you back.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” I counter.  He grins one of 
his killer flyboy grins.  “Besides, what has Sturgis done to 
convince you to take him?”

“Well, Sturgis had some very convincing arguments,” he says 
matter-of-factly.

“So you’re taking Sturgis?” I ask, feeling a little 
crestfallen.  I thought that little scene in the break room 
would’ve counted for something.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you’re taking me?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

“So, who are you taking?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Take me.”  I try to keep the pleading note out of my voice 
but I don’t think I succeed.

He gets up from his desk and marches over to one of his file 
cabinets.  I stand up also and follow, and lean against the 
file cabinet as he searches for whatever file he needs.  

“Come on, Harm, think about it.  The lights.  The crowd.  
You.  Me.  Football,” I add quickly, afraid of how what I 
just said might be construed.  He leans down very close to 
me, so close I am engulfed by that wonderful aftershave.  If 
it’s not Brut it has to be a stolen scent of heaven.  I seize 
up at his proximity, and can only stare helplessly into his 
beautiful green eyes.  They really are quite beautiful.  I’ve 
always loved them.  They say so much about him when the rest 
of him isn’t talking.  Or refusing to talk.

“Aren’t you worried that if you and I go,” he whispers 
softly, and I stiffen up a little at what’s coming next—I 
knew we couldn’t avoid all of our relationship baggage—“the 
Steelers may kick the Rams’ six and you may not enjoy the 
Superbowl at all.”  He stands up straight again, putting a 
little distance between us, that damn smug grin ever present 
on his face.  “Because if you think I’m going to let the 
opportunity to rub it in pass me by, you’d better think 
again.”  He takes a seat behind his desk again and waits for 
my response.

That arrogant bastard.

I saunter over to his chair and lean down very close to his 
ear, maintaining my balance with one hand on the arm of his 
chair, and the other on the back of his chair.  

“If you actually think the Rams are going to lose this one, 
flyboy, maybe you should consider going home early.  You’re 
obviously not feeling very well.  You’d better take care or 
you might not be able to attend the game.  Sturgis and I may 
have to go in your stead.”  So close to his ear I’m having a 
hard time not taking advantage of the opportunity here.  Oh, 
hell.

I place a light kiss on his temple and sashay out of his 
office.

I don’t look back, but I’m pretty sure that supercilious 
smile is no longer on his face.


********
I <I>knew</I> I had a great idea when I decided to see how 
this thing would play out.  Hell, the super bowl’s not for 
another two weeks.  I could really start to enjoy this.

Of course, Mac’s going to kick my six from here to Louisiana 
when she finds out her ministrations are, indeed, all for 
naught.  Maybe she could play RIO for me during my mission.  
Maybe take some Dramamine or something?

I wonder how I can convince the CAG at Pensacola to let a 
Marine LT Colonel with no flight training play back up to a 
Naval Aviator.  “Please, sir.  I really, really like her.”

I need to work on my arguments.  I must be losing my touch.  
Maybe all these close encounters with Mac are affecting my 
legal abilities.  It’s certainly affecting my faculties 
because in the face of an imminent marine pounding I’m 
continuing with this little seats-charade.  I know I have 
some sort of giddy grin on my face judging by the way I feel 
and the odd look Bud just gave me.  I can definitely get used 
to having Mac up close to me.  

Twice now in the office.  Work’s becoming quite an enjoyable 
endeavor.  She’s right.  Why am I unhappy?  Thank goodness 
the Admiral or no one else has caught us together.  And thank 
goodness Singer’s on assignment in New York—she always has 
that annoying habit of turning up at inopportune, but 
advantageous (for her), times.  She’d have a field day with 
this.

I hear a door close and catch sight of Mac locking her 
office.  She catches me staring at her and gives me a 
triumphant smile and sways out of the bullpen, her hips just 
noticeably swinging with each movement of her long sensual 
strides.  

Hmm.  Then again, maybe it’s just me.  I strain my head 
around my desk to watch her leave.  Just as she’s about to 
exit the bullpen she stops and looks at me, the smug smile 
still in place.  She winks at me and walks out.

Oh, marine, you play a fierce game.


********
1150 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA

“You think your green Marine six is going to win this game, 
Mac?  Remember who you’re dealing with here,” he says, cocky 
as ever.  “I’ve got several years of combat experience.”

“So do I,” I point out, thinking of my recent excursion into 
Indonesia and my tour of duty in Bosnia.  He smirks.  Damn 
him.  I’m about ready to show him who exactly *he’s* dealing 
with here.  I place my coffee on the counter next to me and 
lean against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest.

He places his coffee next to mine and leans one arm against 
the counter, hovering over me.  We are in very close 
quarters.  I can smell his aftershave again.  I’m tempted to 
lean in even closer than what we are now and take a long deep 
breath of that wonderful scent, but damn if he thinks he’s 
going to intimidate me.

“Face it squid, when it comes to strategic planning I’ve got 
you covered.”

He leans his other arm against the counter, effectively 
trapping me against the counter and his body.

“When it comes to maneuvers, jarhead, I can turn and burn 
with the best of them,” he breathes huskily.

“We’re not talking about joyrides in a tomcat here, Harm,” I 
point out, taking a deep breath despite myself.

“Maybe we are,” he counters, dipping his head close to mine.  
We’re just centimeters away from really breaking some 
military conduct codes.  Just as his lips are about to touch 
mine I turn my head away from him.  He sighs and pulls away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask placing a hand on 
the back of his head and pulling him towards me again.

“I—I—didn’t think you—I mean, I wasn’t sure if—“

“I just want you to know who’s in charge here,” I whisper 
before planting my lips firmly on his.  They’re soft and warm 
and every bit as wonderful as all those other times I’ve ever 
experienced them.  I wrap my other arm around his neck.  Both 
of his arms wrap around my waist, and now we’re both leaning 
heavily against the counter—well, Harm’s leaning heavily 
against me and I’m leaning heavily against the counter.  If 
it wasn’t there I’m sure we’d both fall back onto the floor, 
not that it would interrupt our current embrace.

I let my hands slip down his shoulders, over his shoulder 
boards and down to his ribbons and those gold wings.  They 
look so good against his white uniform.  In the background 
something blares against our sweet silence, but I’m not about 
to let him loose now that I have him to see what it is.  If 
it’s the Admiral or Bud or anybody else they’re just going to 
have to pull us apart.  He starts burning a trail of kisses 
down my cheek and neck.  I turn my head to the side a little 
to give him better access.

“Sarah,” he whispers.  I smile a little before I realize that 
damn noise is still sounding behind us.  Harm regains my full 
attention when he rips the buttons off the front of my 
uniform jacket as he removes it.

Wow.  I didn’t really think he was the type.  No matter.  
He’s overdressed too.  My hands start fumbling with the 
buttons on his uniform, but I can’t seem to get his uniform 
off.  Damn dress whites are tricky—I forgot the one up by his 
collar.

Finally.  I pull the jacket open and stare at him.  Why’s 
he’s wearing his service whites underneath?

“Harm?”

But I don’t think he hears me.  That sound is really loud and 
piercing now.  Is the fire alarm going off?  Figures.  Well, 
the building’s just going to have to burn down because I’m 
not done here.

He tries to pull me to him, but I don’t let him.  Not yet.  
I’m running the show here, dammit.

I’m rewarded with a very cute pout.  Screw the service 
whites.  This time I do rip his blouse open, and buttons fly 
everywhere.  Finally, we’re getting somewhere.  

I let him pull me to him again, and his lips meet mine 
hungrily.  I close my eyes and just revel in the sensations.  
Yeah, flyboy, you can’t tell me you’re interested in being 
just friends.  Not after this.  I’d like to see you try to go 
back to “just friends.”

I start leading him back to the bed behind us.  Just as the 
back of my leg hits the footboard my eyes pop open and I’m 
staring unimpeded at the ceiling.

My alarm clock continues to wail insistently.

My lips still tingle from the intensity of the kiss—of the 
dream--

Dammit!  I ram my fist down on my alarm clock and it goes 
flying off the nightstand, still blaring.

Great.  It’s going to be one of *those* mornings.


***********

1358 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA

“Morning, Mac,” I say pleasantly.  I’m glad to see her.  I 
wonder what I can expect from the break room today.  

“You look like you had a good night’s sleep,” I comment, 
taking in her pretty, rosy cheeks and bright brown eyes.  I’m 
not sure, but I think her cheeks get even redder.  So does 
her forehead.

“Uh, yeah, I did, thanks,” she mumbles, fumbling hurriedly 
for the carafe before I reach for it.

“What’s your secret?” I ask, thinking of my restless night 
envisioning my favorite marine.

“What?  What do you mean?”  She glances at me quickly then 
looks away.  Something’s up with her.

“I’d kill for a decent night’s rest.”  She must know I’m 
watching her carefully, because she makes a great show of 
adding about a ½ cup of sugar to her coffee in effort to 
avoid eye contact with me.  She dips her spoon in about 8 
times before she responds.

“Sergei keeping you up?”

“No,” I reply, “Not really.  I mean, there’s this thing with 
INS and getting him settled here in the states.” I sigh.  I’m 
not ready to lose him, but it’s not like he’s going back to 
Russia.  Yet, anyway.  If we can’t get this stuff 
straightened out with INS he might be doing just that. 

“I just never really sleep well, you know,” I decide to say.  
I don’t really want to get into Sergei right now, or the real 
reasons why I can’t sleep.

“Oh,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.  I snicker at her 
puckered face.

“Too sweet?”

She coughs.  “Nagght—“ she clears her throat “—not enough 
cream.”  She reaches for the carton of milk in the fridge but 
I get there first.

“You don’t mind do you?” I ask watching her fight to keep her 
gums from pulling away from her teeth.

She shoots me a glare.  It’s the first real eye contact we’ve 
made since I walked into the break room. 

I smile at her and poor enough milk to coat the bottom of my 
cup a half-inch.  With the angle I’m pouring at, I also 
manage to take an inordinate amount of time doing it.  As 
soon as I right the carton she snatches it out of my hand and 
pours enough of the substance into her coffee cup to slosh a 
little over the sides.

I can tell from her first sip it’s not enough.

“Here Marine, let me fix you a decent cup of coffee.” I usher 
her aside.  She flashes me another angry glare, but allows me 
to dump her coffee out into the sink.

“Squids by definition can’t make a ‘decent cup of coffee,’” 
She snorts.

Sheesh.  You offer to do something nice…

Then again, I am stringing her along with this Superbowl 
thing.  Maybe it’s best not to tally up the marks for good 
deeds just yet.

“Well, what do you propose I do?”

“Stand out of my way, and pass me a coffee filter.”

I do as she asks, and pass her a filter.

“Boy for someone who had such a good night’s sleep you sure 
act like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

A wave of crimson washes over her, coating her from the neck 
up.

“You know on second thought, I really need to get started on 
some of my research.”  She slips past me tossing the filter I 
just gave her onto the counter.

What did I say now?

Women.


*********
1805 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA


Well, I think it’s a safe bet my behavior in the break room 
has aroused Harm’s concern.  

Why’d I have to be so damn jumpy?  It’s not like Harm knew 
about the dream I had this morning.  He was just making 
conversation.  Just being Harm.  Now I’m acting all weird 
around him and he’s going to think something’s up.  That is 
not sucking-up-for-Superbowl behavior.

Let’s face it, Marine:  hiding out in your office all morning 
avoiding him isn’t going to quell his suspicions, either.  

It’s his fault, though, really.  Technically.  If you think 
about it.  He’s the one who wanted everyone to play his 
little game.

And of course I couldn’t refuse, and now everything’s screwed 
up royally.  I’m acting like…like…I don’t know what exactly 
I’m acting like.  Maybe it’s best not to dwell on it.

Kissing him, flirting outrageously, having lusty dreams about 
my best friend, not that those aren’t something nice to wake 
up to—except when I realize it is all a dream and I have to 
go to work to face said friend who, thus far, hasn’t really 
shown too many inclinations to make those dreams a reality, 
despite my best efforts. 

I heave a sigh.  Too bad he couldn’t act more like he did in 
my dream.  Dream Harm was like the Harm that kissed me on the 
Admiral’s porch.  Passionate.  Needy.  Desperate.

The bed in the break room was a nice touch.  Convenient, 
too.  I wonder at the inner workings of my mind sometimes.  

I should’ve guessed it was a dream when I was undressing 
Harm.  He was wearing his dress whites and it’s January.  Not 
too mention the service whites underneath, why they were 
there…I don’t really want to dwell on those two factors, but 
I can’t stop the mental picture of Harm in his white uniforms 
with those shiny gold wings.  

Some days I can’t wait for summer and it’s not just because 
of the warmer weather.

I keep expecting Harm to pop in my office at any time.  He 
didn’t ask me to have lunch with him.  Maybe, since my door 
was closed, he thought I didn’t want to be bothered, which, 
in truth, is generally what it’s supposed to mean, but that’s 
never meant anything to Harm.  Then again, he probably hasn’t 
figured out what to make of my behavior yet and is lying 
low.  

The door’s open now, and I’m half hoping, half dreading 
catching the attention of my favorite flyboy.

Sure enough at eight minutes past he comes wandering in from 
lunch, casting his eyes into my office.  I smile at him.  
Mustn’t scare him away.

He changes direction and leans against my doorjamb.

“Hey Mac.” He nods to the pile of folders—well, the far left 
pile of folders—on my desk.  “Did you get your research done?”

“Huh?  Oh, yeah,” remembering my proclamation to him this 
morning.  I smile again.

“Good.”  He must think it’s safe to enter because he leaves 
the security of the doorjamb and steps into my office.

“Did you get any lunch?”

“Oh, no, I had a package of Twinkies and a soda.  I wasn’t 
really hungry,” I lie.  I never miss a meal.  At least I 
don’t substitute the main course with cola and Twinkies.

He doesn’t believe me either.

“You okay?” he asks, taking a seat in the chair across from 
me.  The indication is clear: he’s determined to hear out 
whatever it is that might be bothering me.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” he persists, fixing me with a worried stare.  
God, I love him.

“Yeah, I’m just ready for this week to be over I guess.”

He nods slightly.  “Well, one more day.”  He pauses then 
opens his mouth to speak, but whatever he’s about to say is 
lost when Tiner appears.  Harm stands up, and for some reason 
so do I.

“Ma’am?  The admiral would like to see you.”

“Thank you, Tiner.”

I offer another smile in what I hope is an apology and Harm 
nods, and we both make for the doorway.  He pauses to allow 
me to precede him and as I brush by I slide my hand down his 
arm and smile at him.  

He responds immediately with a soft smile of his own.  

I know, through that simple touch, that everything’s okay and 
we’re back on track.  

Though where the track leads is anyone’s guess.  

Hopefully to the Superbowl.

Hopefully to something more than that.


********
2115 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA

“What, did the bubbleheads decide they didn’t need you?”  

Turner grins.  “My legal services were quite appreciated.”  
He sets down his briefcase and switches his coat to his other 
arm.

“I bet.”

Mac comes out of her office and heads to the copier, cutting 
in front of me.  

“Excuse me, but I was just getting ready to use that.”

“Sounded to me like you were talking to Sturgis.  Hello, 
Commander,” she greets, ignoring my pointed looks.  She hands 
me the paper I had laid on the glass.  “Here.”

“Colonel,” Turner replies.

Mac and I try to jostle for position in front of the copier 
when she pauses to change documents, but she manages to take 
advantage of my chivalry—after all I can’t just shove her 
beside, I am an officer and gentleman--and finally I just 
give up.  She doesn’t look at me, but there’s another smirk 
gracing her features.

“So, did anyone figure it out?” Turner asks.

“Figure what out?”

“The seats.  Anyone figure out where you got them?  And did 
you figure out who you’re taking?”  Sturgis glances at Mac 
and I, smiling expectantly.  Mac appears to be avoiding eye 
contact with either one of us.

“Well, the Colonel had a couple of very persuasive 
arguments,” I say, watching Mac closely.  She stiffens a 
little and I think I see a faint blush sweep along her 
cheekbones.

“Did she?”  Sturgis looks at Mac suspiciously.  

Mac finally looks up and smiles beatifically at 
Sturgis.  “Yes, Commander, I’d like to see you top it.”

“It may not be so hard.”

“Don’t count on it, Sturgis,” I warn.

Mac swivels her head towards me, and smiles.  If I didn’t 
know better I think she is relishing in her earlier behavior.

“It’ll be a tough act to follow.” 

Mac grins wider and it’s starting to disarm me a 
little.  “What?”

“So, I’ve won?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sounded like it.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Sturgis interjects, and I’m aware of 
his eyes following our exchange very closely.  I’m also aware 
he seems amused and not at all surprised at Mac’s apparent 
victory.

“So…how is it I didn’t win?”  Mac sticks her bottom lip out 
for a moment and I’m entertained by the thought that she’s 
pouting for my benefit.  However, I don’t think I can wheedle 
a kiss out of her here in the bullpen, and with Sturgis 
present.

“You didn’t guess who my benefactor was, remember?”

“But I upped Sturgis.”

I cock my head to the side.  “That you did, marine.”

“Oh, and what were your arguments?”  Sturgis asks Mac.

“Privileged, counselor,” I say.

“That I’m far more enjoyable company than you,” Mac says.

“You wound me, Colonel,” Sturgis replies with mock hurt.

“Sorry,” Mac says not sounding it in the least.  If her 
argument is indeed that she is far more enjoyable company 
then she’s certainly proved it.

“I see we’re developing a ‘Take no prisoners’ approach to 
these seats.”  Sturgis comments.  Mac smiles sweetly.  I try 
to keep a neutral face, but I don’t think I succeed.

“Well, Commander, I take football very seriously.”  

“I’ll have to up the ante, seeing as the competition is 
fierce, but still undecided.”  He looks to me for 
confirmation.  I nod, but it’s already pretty much decided in 
my book.  

Brilliant, beautiful marine who keeps me on my toes 1, old 
friend from the academy whom I will never have romantic 
feelings for 0.

Mac frowns in annoyance at me, and I find myself hastening to 
add, “But I’ve already got my ‘vette back, Sturg, so I’m not 
sure what else you can tempt me with.”

“We’ll see, Harm, we’ll see.  I think I can make a pretty 
good deal.”

Mac smirks.  “Well, I hope you’re as persuasive as I am, 
Commander, because I have no intentions on letting up now 
that I’m ahead.”  She flashes a mischievous smile at me and 
heads back into her office.  I find I’m both thrilled and a 
little disconcerted.  

Mac and I have always enjoyed a good challenge.  If this 
turns out well, I may have to thank the Admiral and Tiner 
later for their ‘inadvertent’ slip.  

If it turns out bad…I wonder if a pissed off, hurt, and 
disappointed Marine will be the least of my problems.

This time I don’t bother hiding my grin.

*******

Oh dear.  

Now why did I go and say that to Harm?  I have to admit this 
little game he has going is fun.  A battle of wills.  And 
Harm thinks he’s going to win against a Marine.

Hell, his resolve seems to be weakening already, if his hints 
are any indication.  If all it takes is just a little peck on 
the cheek…

Don’t even go there, MacKenzie.

Well, if he insists on stringing me along with his decision 
on the seats, then I’m going to string him along with my…
persuasions.  They say the chase is half the fun of romance, 
although technically Harm and I have been engaging in the 
chase for the past several years, and it has been neither 
fun, nor has it yielded any romance. 

Yet.

It’s at least making work interesting.  Hmm.  Time to 
formulate my next plan of attack.

You shouldn’t mess with Marines, Flyboy.

********

“Harm?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you have the Sorenson file?”

“Hmm?  Oh, yeah, it’s right…Yeah, I’m here,” he says into the 
phone.  “It’s good to hear from you, too.  Yeah?  Send her my 
love.”

I step into his office, knowing I should leave and give him 
some privacy, but I need the file.

And I’m nosy.

“No, work’s been pretty busy.  Yeah.  Yeah.”  He laughs then 
sobers.  He tilts his head towards me questioningly.

I quickly point to his desk.  “Here?” I mouth.  He shakes his 
head.

“Huh?  No, she’s…fine.  They’re still in Italy, I believe.”

He must be talking to someone about his parents.  Hmm…who 
knows him that well to ask about his mother?  Renee met his 
mother before.  But she’s out of the picture now, so he 
wouldn’t be talking to her.

“No, no, I’m not…don’t start.” He looks at me again with a 
peculiar _expression.  I sift through the files on his desk.  
He watches me for a moment as if waiting.  Finally about four 
folders in, he points to a file.  Sorenson.

Damn.

I force a smile and turn around to head out.  He’s still 
chatting to mystery caller.

“Yeah, I’m kind of looking forward to this weekend, too.  
It’s been a while.  I could use the break and the fresh 
air.”  I slow my steps.  “It’s been a while, not since the 
last time you and I drove up there.  Yes, I remember her.”  
Who?  “Is she bringing her friend?”  A pause.  He 
laughs.  “Right, just the two of us.  Nice and cozy.”    

Who?!  I’m almost to the door.  I have to hear how this plays 
out.

“No.  What kind of a surprise?”  Pause.  “I don’t know.  I’m 
sure she’s—hang on a sec.”

“Was there something else you needed, Mac?”

“Uh, no, no.  I think everything’s here.”  I am not so low as 
to listen in on my friend’s conversation.  I am not so low as 
to listen in on my friend’s conversation.  I am not—

“Oh.  Well, then do you mind shutting the door on your way 
out?”

“No, of course not.”

I shut it behind me and lean my head against it for a 
moment.  Time to regroup.

*********
1547 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA

“Morning, Flyboy,” I greet brightly.  I’m determined not to 
have a repeat of yesterday.

He leans back in his chair and smiles, but it fades into 
suspicious amusement when he sees the plate I’m carrying.

“What have you got there?”

“A little treat for you,” I reply cheerily, beaming what I 
hope is a smile to light up his senses.

The amusement is gone and now the suspiciousness is first and 
foremost in his demeanor.  He regards the plate, covered by 
tinfoil, warily.

“Go ahead, take a look.”

“You take a look.  I’ve learned to beware of that which hides 
under tinfoil.”  He leans back and stares at me defiantly.

Arghh.  All right.  Fine.  I whip the foil off and stand back 
proudly.

“Ta-da!”

He leans forward again and inspects the plate of cookies 
before him.

“What are they?”

“Cookies!” I exclaim, exasperated.  Good grief, Mr. Tofu has 
to have had at least ONE cookie in his 38 years of existence.

“Wh-what kind of cookies?”

“Oatmeal raisin,” I reply modestly.

“You…baked?  For me?”  Okay, I do not like the sound of that 
falling from his lips.  “I didn’t even know you knew how to 
bake,” he murmurs still staring at the cookies.

All right, flyboy, you’re starting to annoy me.  

“Of course I can bake!” I snap.  “I just…don’t.  Not enough 
time.”  He pokes at one with his finger then looks up.

“Have *you* tried one?”

“Er, eh, no.  I prefer chocolate chip.”  He stares at me 
incredulously.  He doesn’t need to know that this is the 
first time I’ve ever baked oatmeal raisin cookies, nor does 
he need to know about the cloud of doubt that hung over me as 
I prepared them.  Anyway, they look like oatmeal cookies.  
I’m sure they taste like them.

“Go on, taste one,” I encourage.

He gives me a pleading look.

“Taste…one…” I repeat through clenched teeth.

He gives me another look, this one full of despondency, and 
obediently picks one up.  He takes a bite of a couple crumbs 
and looks up at me.

“Mmm…good.”

“Harm,” I say, then stop.  “Nevermind.  Just give me the 
cookies.” I snatch the tinfoil off the desk and reach for the 
plate.  To my surprise he pulls it out of my reach.

He takes a real bite of the cookie, managing to cram about 
half of it in his mouth.  He chews for a moment.  He doesn’t 
look like he’s going to gag anytime soon.  In fact, he looks 
rather surprised that he *isn’t* going to gag anytime soon.

“Mmmm…actually these are sorta good.” He says between chews.

“Really?”  Okay, so I’m surprised that he isn’t going to gag 
anytime soon, too.

He offers me the plate.  “Wanna bite?”

Hmm…definitely.  I must experience my own handiwork now that 
it’s clear Harm won’t die from it.  “Just a small bite.”

He holds out the other half of his cookie, the one he took a 
bite from.  

“Thanks.”  

I take it and cram it into my mouth, trying to shush the 
voice in my head I haven’t heard since high school that says 
a variation of  “now your lips are touching mine.”  I really 
can’t be that pathetic.

“Mmm…” These really are good.  Damn MacKenzie.  You should 
really take up baking.

Harm grabs another one off the plate before he takes the 
tinfoil from my hand and places it over the cookies.  He sets 
the plate on top of his inbox.

“Thanks, Mac.”  He flashes a very nice wide smile that makes 
my stomach flutter.  “Still, I don’t know if that’ll be 
enough to persuade me.”  

He winks.  He actually winks at me.  I’m not sure whether I’m 
flattered or infuriated when I realize his insinuations.

“Oh.  And what *would* persuade you?” 

“Well…”

“Hey Harm,” Sturgis busts in.

ARRRGGHHH.

“So, ready for this weekend?”

I look at Harm questioningly.  For a split second, Harm looks 
almost as annoyed as I feel upon Sturgis’s interruption, but 
the look is gone, replaced by the smirk he’s been wearing 
since we found out about his super luck with the Superbowl.

“You bet, buddy.”

“What time do you want to check out of here?”

Harm considers.  He knows I’m watching him, too, so he puts 
on a good show of a furrowed brow and a thoughtful 
_expression.  I know the looks.  I see them in court all the 
time.  Why he thinks he can fool me…

“Probably about 1530 or 1600 if we can manage it.  I want to 
try to beat rush hour traffic.”

“Agreed.”

“Going somewhere?” I ask, not even trying to be subtle.

“Yeah, Harm and I have a mutual friend from the academy—Jack 
Keeter—and we’re all going to go skiing in Vermont,” Sturgis 
answers.

Skiing?  Harm?  In Vermont?

“Hmm, well tell Commander Keeter he better stay out of 
trouble because I’m not coming to bail his ass out again.  
Once was enough.”

I fix a stern glance at Harm.  “I’m not bailing yours out 
either.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harm gives me a mock salute.  He looks pleased 
that I don’t seem to recall Commander Keeter with fond 
memories.  Actually he wasn’t that bad.  A little arrogant, 
but that’s nothing that I haven’t experienced with Harm 
before.  Or any other jet jock.  We exchanged some 
interesting stories about Harm.  

One comes to mind, and I can’t resist adding,

“Try to avoid the shrubbery…particularly around pretty 
girls.”  Actually, you can hit the shrubbery, just avoid the 
pretty girls.

Sturgis bursts out laughing and Harm squirms in his chair.  

“Ooh, are those oatmeal raisin cookies?”

“Yeah.  Mac made them,” he informs Sturgis.

“Really?”  Sturgis looks at me with interest.  Harm offers 
one to Sturgis.  He takes a bite, without obvious regard to 
dying or falling seriously ill—unlike Harm, I note.

“Mmm…you outdid yourself Colonel.”  He grins.  

“Thank you.”  I turn my attention back to Harm.  “So, you’ll 
be gone all weekend?”

He nods.  “Be back Sunday night.”

“Oh.”  Damn.  I was hoping to rent a movie with him, or go 
jogging with him, or some activity that would keep me 
foremost in his thoughts for the Big Game.  Sturgis stealing 
him away for the whole weekend with Keeter will no doubt nix 
that.  They’ll probably drink half the nights and flirt with 
every woman there.

I fix Sturgis with a Look.  He grins even wider.  We both 
know what’s going on here.

He’s not going to get my Superbowl seat, no matter how hard 
he tries to distract Harm.  When it comes to distracting 
Harm, I think I can take care of that better than Sturgis 
could ever hope to.  

Unless Harm meets up with some blonde.

Please, we just got rid of Renee.  No more.  We have a chance 
here, the two of us, as long as no one else is clouding the 
picture.  We just have to figure out how to make that chance 
happen.  It’s difficult because I’m still unsure as to what 
he really wants.  His career, family, and how I—us—fit into 
all that.  To be honest, I’m not sure how he—us—fits into all 
that in my little scheme.  

I want the family, and I know he does, too.  Harm and I have 
always wanted a family.  I’ve envisioned many times our 
children, our marriage, even our home.  Not that trite white 
house with the white picket fence, but a two story, mostly 
brick home with a large family room and fireplace, a two—well 
three, with Harm’s Vette—car garage and a large backyard so 
our kids could run.  

And how many kids would that be?  One?  No, not if we can 
help it.  At least two.  Maybe three.  Two little boys and a 
girl.

We’re at a good point in our respective careers.  But what 
are we each willing to give up in our careers for “us” to 
form that family together?  We’d have to cut back on the 
extent we travel.  Would we both, or would I as the mother be 
expected to make those cutbacks.  I think Harm would insist 
on sharing that responsibility.

And what happens if Harm’s assigned sea duty?  Or stationed 
overseas?  Or what if I am?  Where do we go?  Does our family 
move to wherever Harm’s assigned, or do we move wherever I’m 
assigned?  In that event, someone will have to make a 
sacrifice.  Whose job do we consider most important to 
follow?  

I realize both Harm and Sturgis are staring at me.  

“Well,” I say, forcing a smile, “Have fun on your little 
trip.  And enjoy your cookies.”

“I will.  I’ll try to catch you later before I leave.”

“Good.”  Maybe I can at least give him a little goodbye 
present.  Something to think about while he’s waiting for the 
ski lift and some little snow bunny is trying to charm him 
away from me.  

Damn if a third party is going to enter in this equation, 
anyway.

Like Chloe says, “First comes love, THEN comes marriage, THEN 
comes Harm with a baby carriage.”

One thing at a time MacKenzie.


********

0134 ZULU
Mac’s Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.

There’s a knock on my door and I swing it open to find 
standing uncomfortably on the other side.

“Harm!” I hope I don’t sound as excited to him as I do to my 
own ears.  “Back already?”

“What do you mean ‘already’?  It’s 8:30.”

“Is it?”  Actually it’s 8:34 and 17 seconds.  I motion for 
him to come in and he does, walking stiffly to the couch.  He 
shrugs painfully out of his jacket and lays it on the arm of 
the sofa.  He stands over the sofa for a moment before 
dropping down on it with a loud groan.

“Are you okay?” I ask, picking up my empty bottle of 
Naya.  “Want something to drink?  To eat?”

“Maybe just a shot of morphine,” he mutters.

I suppress the smile that threatens to surface.  “How about 
some Aleve?”

“Okay.”

I quickly grab two out of the bottle in the kitchen and bring 
him a glass of water to wash them down with.  He moans again 
when I plop down on the couch beside him.

“I’m getting old,” he says.

“You’re 38,” I reply, wondering where he’s going with this.

“Thanks,” he mutters dryly.

“What?  You’re still young.”

He snorts.  “I don’t feel young.  I hurt everywhere.”

“Well, when was the last time you went skiing?”

He thinks for a moment.  “Eleven years ago.  Before my crash.”

Now it’s my turn to snort.  “And you honestly wonder why you 
hurt?”

“Well, I didn’t think I was that out of shape.  I mean, I 
beat you in the charity thing.”

“You didn’t beat me, Harm,” I remind him.

“Well, I tied you.  Starting back six minutes, that’s got to 
count for something.”

Unbelievable.

“I thought you were tired of competing with me.”

“I am.”

Right.  If that were the case for either one of us we 
wouldn’t be using this Superbowl contest as a platform for 
love and war, but the fact is we love to compete against each 
other.  As long as I’m beating Harm, and vice versa.  It’s 
one of the things that makes both our worlds go round.  We 
should both just accept that.

He leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table and 
moans again.

“Here, turn around.  Let me knead out the knots in your 
muscles.  You’ll feel better.  Go on,” I make a motion with 
my hand indicating he should turn.  He does, with aggravated 
slowness.

I start kneading his stiff muscles between my fingers, and he 
moans every once in a while when I hit a particularly tense 
of sore spot.  Finally, after about 43 minutes and 38 
seconds, I seem to have gotten all the kinks out.  Without 
thinking, I wrap my arms around him and pull him back against 
me, nuzzling my lips against his neck and ear.

“Better?” I murmur, breathing in the masculine scent of him.  
It’s not Brut.  It’s something different.  Not bad, but not…
him.

“Much,” he returns.  He leans into my embrace for a long 
while.  Long enough for me to realize what I’m doing.  I 
place another couple of kisses against his ear and cheek and 
sigh.

“It’s getting late.  You’d better get going.”

“Yeah,” he agrees after a moment, but he makes no move to 
pull away, and I don’t release him from my grasp.

Finally, he does pull away, enough so that he can turn his 
head and plant a nice kiss on my cheek, and my arms fall away.

“Thanks, Mac,” he whispers.  I nod and stand up and hand him 
his coat.

“See you at work tomorrow, Flyboy.”  I’m wringing my hands 
and I hope he doesn’t notice my nervousness.

“Night, Mac.”

“Goodnight.”

“Harm stares at me with the look of intensity that is so 
inherent in everything he desires and I find myself hoping 
he’ll stay, hoping he’ll sweep me up in his arms and do 
everything I’ve dreamed about him doing—or at least kissing 
me until I forget my own name.  Even as I’m telling myself 
I’m crazy, his hand comes up to cup my cheek.  Almost of its 
own volition, my own hand encircles his wrist and holds it, 
and I revel in his palm against my skin.  His thumb sweeps 
over the skin below my eyes before he pulls his hand away.

“Sweet dreams, Ninja-girl.”

Oh, they’ll be good ones tonight.

*********

1614 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA

“Wow, Sturgis, these are great!”  The sound, but more likely 
the words, brings Mac shuffling in here.  Even though I know 
her visit has more to do with her competition with Sturgis 
for the non-existent football seats (which reminds me, I 
really need to get around to confessing that), I am glad to 
see her.  I look forward to her smile, her laughter, her 
touch—any kisses she might be willing to bestow—even her 
scowls and glares (unless she’s really mad at me) more than 
she knows.

“Take a look at this Mac.” I show her the objects of my 
admiration.  Two tickets to Bob Seger’s concert, four rows 
back from the stage.  She peers at them for a moment, before 
shooting Sturgis an “I-know-what’s-going-on-here-look.”

“Nice.  Where did you come by those?” She asks me—at least I 
think she’s asking me.  She’s looking at me, but it seems the 
question could be more directed at Sturgis.

It’s Sturgis who answers.  “A buddy of mine was assigned TAD 
in Spain and he gave them to me.  I know how much Harm likes 
Seger, so I thought I’d pass the good fortune onto him.”

“Uh-huh.  Just like that, huh?”

Right.  I don’t believe that one, either, Sturgis, but thanks 
anyway.

“Yeah.  Harm and I are good friends,” he emphasizes.  Mac and 
him might want to compare notes so that they aren’t just 
emphasizing the same points in their pleas for seats.  “I 
thought he might appreciate the tickets.”

“What about Congresswoman Latham?” Mac asks, voicing the 
thoughts in my head.  “You could use the tickets as an excuse 
to take her out.”

“A member of congress?”  He asks, clearly skeptical of such 
an idea.  “To a Bob Seger concert?”

“Yeah, sure why not?  She’s from Michigan.  I’m sure she’s 
heard of him.  Who’s to say if she may like him or not?”  
Judging by the look on Sturgis’s face, this thought has not 
occurred to him.  It might be a good idea to break the ice, 
or call a truce, or reestablish communication.  “And she’s 
hardly your typical member of congress.”

“Yeah, Sturgis.  This might be the opportunity you need to 
pursue a relationship with Bobbi,” I add.

Sturgis looks at me strangely and I get the impression that 
he’s thinking the same thing about my Superbowl tickets and 
Mac, or maybe it’s just my conscience getting the better of 
me.

“No, no,” he murmurs, thinking out loud.  “There’s actually a 
little jazz club I’ve been thinking about taking her to.  You 
know, the one on 4th and Washington?  It has some nice 
atmosphere.”

Quiet, cozy, romantic.  Yeah it does.  Maybe I should take 
Mac there.  I clamp down on that line of thinking.  Those 
thoughts are going to lead to the marine beating I’ll surely 
receive when Mac finds out the truth about her coveted 
Superbowl seats.

“Yeah, that is a nice place to take someone on a date,” Mac 
agrees, and Sturgis and I both break out of our respective 
thoughts and stare at her.

“What?  Dalton took me there a couple of times,” she 
explains.  I look away and Sturgis stares at her for a moment 
longer before returning to the topic of the Seger tickets.

“Well, I thought you and I might enjoy them.  Get away from 
work and relax.  We had a good time in Vermont.”

I laugh and nod.  “Maybe this excursion won’t leave bruises 
all over my body,” I say.

Mac smiles.  I think of my visit Sunday, and I smile as well.

Sturgis glances at the two of us and comments, “Doesn’t look 
like you suffered too much.

“Uh, er, no, the pain went away pretty quickly.”

“I bet,” he snorts, looking at Mac.  She smiles innocently.

“Give it up, Commander, you’re never going to win these 
tickets,” she taunts.

“Well, you’ll notice, Colonel, that all your efforts haven’t 
solidified you a spot,” he scoffs.

“That’s because I haven’t even begun my efforts,” she says, 
turning her back to Sturgis and throwing a saucy look at me 
before she saunters out of my office.  That little swing in 
her hips is back and I can’t stop my eyes from following her 
figure out into the bullpen.

“Lunch?” she calls, knowing damn well I’m watching her.

“Sure.”

Sturgis makes an odd noise, sort of a combination of a half-
amused and half-disgusted sigh, and shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.  No way can I say no to that—if that was 
Bobbi, I doubt he’d refuse, either.

“You’ve got it bad buddy,” is all he offers.

“What?  Mac and I—“

“’—are just friends’.  ‘We’re in a pretty weird place 
now.’  ‘There’s all that tension,’” he mimics.  “Do you ever 
convince anyone with that?  I don’t think you guys can 
convince yourselves.”

He’s right, but damn if I’m going to admit it after this 
weekend.

“Look, it’s—“

“’—complicated,’ I know.  I’ve heard it before.  I doubt I’m 
the only one.  You ever think you guys make it that way?”

I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off with a 
wave.  “Listen, Harm, let me know if you want to go with me 
to see Seger.”

“You sure about not taking Bobbi?” I ask, glad to put the 
topic of Mac and I to rest for the moment.

“Yeah, yeah.  I have something else in mind,” he says 
mysteriously.

“Hmm…well, yeah, I’m definitely interested, Sturg.”

“Okay.  We playing basketball tonight?”

“Yeah, I think I got all the kinks worked out from this 
weekend.”

“Good.  If not, it’ll give you another good excuse to have 
Mac work them out.”  He grins wickedly and leaves.

Am I really that obvious?

**********

“Guess what, Flyboy?” I say excitedly before I stop dead in 
my tracks.  Sturgis, the only occupant in Harm’s office, 
raises an eyebrow.

“Flyboy?” he echoes.  “Pet names for each other, and still 
you deny a relationship.”

“Flyboy is actually a fairly common nickname for an aviator.  
It’s one of the nicer names I refer to him as.  And what ‘pet 
names’ have you heard him call me?” I demand.  A few examples 
pop into my mind, but I’m pretty sure Sturgis has never heard 
them.  Harm calls me by pet names only slightly more often 
than he calls me Sarah.

“’My Marine dream.’  Oh, wait, nevermind.  I think that was 
Keeter.”

“You guys talked about me?”  Harm talked about me?  I’m 
tempted to ask, but I’d like to think I’m a little more 
mature than the average grade schooler.  Good grief, we’re 
adults.  We don’t need some middleman to get us together.

I hope not, anyway.  Then again, it may help where all other 
attempts have failed.

“I think your name was mentioned briefly.  We were talking 
about women in general.”

“So, how did my name get mentioned,” I ask as casually as 
possible.  Please say Harm brought it up.  Please say Harm 
brought it up.  

I’m not fooling Sturgis for a second with my detached 
interest.

“I think Keeter asked how you were.”

Damn.  Didn’t tell Harm tell me that Sunday?

“Oh.”

“What you’re not going to make some comment about being 
a ‘Marine Dream,’” Harm snickers from the doorway.  He 
strolls in and continues, “Especially Keeter’s.  If I called 
you my marine dream I bet I’d wind up with my six sitting on 
my shoulders.”

Don’t be so sure, flyboy.  You may find yourself pinned in a 
marine liplock, instead.

“I’m more interested in what you had to say on the subject of 
me,” I reply honestly.

“It wasn’t much of interest,” he replies, avoiding my eyes.

“Actually,” Sturgis chimes in, “it was quite interesting and 
I do recall you going on about it for quite some time.”  
Sturgis squints hard, as though trying to jog his 
memory.  “In fact, didn’t Keeter tell you to ‘shut up already 
and just’—how did he put it?”

To say I am keenly interested in this topic is an insult so 
heinous, I’m sure it requires an analogy worthy of its 
ugliness, but I can’t take my attention away from Harm and 
Sturgis and what Keeter said to think up an appropriate one.  
What’s even more gratifying is watching Harm turn about three 
shades of red before he kicks Sturgis’s chair as he walks by.

“Uh—did you need something Sturgis?” Harm asks, shooting him 
a menacing glare.

“’Just—well, grab her and—‘“

“Are those files for me?” he asks loudly, trying vainly to 
snatch them out of Sturgis’s hands.  Sturgis, due in part to 
the desk separating him and his own quick reflexes, evades 
Harm’s grasp easily.

I’m glad.  I want to hear what Keeter said.  And watch Harm 
squirm a bit more.

“’Grab her’ and…?” I prompt.  Harm towers over his desk and 
makes another grab.  He misses again.  

“Well, maybe I’d better not say,” Sturgis amends.  Harm lets 
out a very audible sigh of relief.

“So,” Sturgis says brightly.  “Did we ever figure out who’s 
getting that extra seat to the Superbowl?”

88888********

You, if nothing else so I can eject you over the Superbowl 
dome, I think murderously.  However I’m getting rather tired 
of ejecting from F-14s, not to mention I’d lose my wings, so 
that’s really not a viable option.

My attention focuses on Mac, who’s burning holes into Sturgis 
in unabashed curiosity.  She’s not going to let this die.  
She may leave it alone for now, but she’ll catch me—or worse, 
Sturgis—off guard and weasel it out of one of us.

There’s not really all that much to tell.  I mean, it’s not 
like I professed my undying love and devotion for Mac to 
Sturgis and Keeter.  I guess I did kind of talk about her for 
while, but I really don’t think it was all that long.  I 
mean, Keeter asked how she was, I just thought he’d 
appreciate a thorough answer.  I think Mac knows me well 
enough to read between the lines, however. 

Sydney, Australia, ferry ride, notwithstanding.

I’d like to think our communication skills have improved 
somewhat since that whole debacle.  I <i>hope</i> our 
communication skills have improved since then, because I 
don’t think either of us could handle another fallout from a 
similar scenario.  

No, I’m tired of this dance, too.  This is it.  Either Mac 
and I are meant for each other and are going to be together 
or…or, we aren’t, and that will be the end of it.  A painful, 
unsatisfying end, but an end nonetheless.

“No, Harm’s been keeping us in limbo about it for the past 
two weeks.  Come on, Harm, the Superbowl’s only four days 
away” Mac conjoles, looking at me with such soft brown eyes.

“You’ll have my decision by Friday,” I say, hoping I can come 
up with a good explanation for why I led Mac on about those 
seats.  I don’t think “because I was hoping I’d log some 
serious lip-action time with you, (and thus begin our journey 
to FantasyWorld)” is going to pacify Mac.

“That’s tomorrow,” Mac says.  Great.  I have less than 24 
hours to save my six from Mac.  I should have just told her 
the truth, but nooo, I had to let my ego and my hormones do 
the talking, and while thus far I’ve been a far happier man 
these past two weeks than I think I’ve been in a long time, 
the future does not hold much promise, at least until Mac 
cools down and I can worm my way back into her good graces.

“Well,” I say, a nervous laugh slipping past my lips, “you’ll 
have your answer then.”

“Good.”

“Great.”  They reply in unison.

“So, we hitting the court tonight, buddy?”

“How about dinner at my place and we can discuss the Sorenson 
case?”  This is also said simultaneously.  Before I can 
answer, Mac turns to glare at Sturgis.  Sturgis shrugs 
unapologetically.

“Uhh, I think that’s a negative on either.”  They both look 
disappointed.  Oh, well.  I’ve got to figure out this 
Superbowl thing, and I have a feeling it’s going to require 
most of my night.

********

I’m packing up my things for the evening, grabbing the 
Sorenson file, but I’m not, under any circumstances, 
discussing it with Mac tonight.  I’m not.  I tell myself over 
and over again as I slip into my overcoat and grab my cover.

“What are you doing?  Chanting?” her beautiful voice breaks 
through.

“Huh?”

“You’re bobbing your head up and down like you’re reciting 
something,” she says, watching me carefully.

“I’m not.”  

“Oookay,” she draws out, clearly not buying.  “Walk down with 
you?”

“Sure.”  I hold the elevator for her as she quickly grabs her 
own things and then slips in to stand as close as she can 
beside me.  I’m quickly engulfed by her elegant perfume.  I 
look at her with what I feel is a pained _expression as she 
smiles prettily.

“So, are you going to spend the evening on your decision for 
the extra seat?”

She knows me so well.

“Yes, counselor, I am.”

“Seems to me like it should be no contest,” she remarks 
casually, following me to my Lexus.  

“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about.” 

“Well, let me give you another piece to consider,” she 
replies in a sultry voice as I throw my briefcase onto the 
passenger seat and turn to face her.  She places a hand on 
either side of my face and pulls my head down to her lips.  I 
can’t say I put up much resistance once I realize her 
intentions.  My lips fuse with hers and within seconds my 
arms are around her waist, holding her tight against me.  

I don’t release her lips until I’m sure the feel and warmth 
of her mouth is burned into my brain.  That doesn’t take 
long, so I add a few seconds for good measure.

“Just something to think about tonight,” she whispers 
breathlessly.  I’m still trying to catch my own breath, and 
my good sense, which, if truth be told, went by the wayside a 
couple of weeks ago.

“That’s not fair, marine,” I pant.

“All’s fair in love and war, Commander.” 

She smiles, but it’s a loaded smile, and I think I see a 
little wistfulness there in her soft brown eyes before she 
pulls away from me completely.  She slides into her ‘Vette 
and drives off with a small wave.

I wonder which we’re engaging in?

88888*********

0630 ZULU
Mac’s Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.

The pounding in my head has finally permeated my brain to 
tell me that, in fact, the pounding is coming from the door, 
not my head.  I roll out of bed with a groan, and wrestle 
with the sheets that tangle around my legs.  I manage to pull 
the covers halfway off the bed before I break away to stumble 
to the door.  

The pounding is incessant.  This better damn well be 
important at…at…what time—oh, 1:30 in the morning?!!  And 
tearing me away from a delicious Harm dream, a dream where we 
were together…on our honeymoon…

Damn important.

In my sleep-hazed mind I wrench the door open, not only 
without looking to see who’s on the other side, but without 
unhooking the chain.  In both cases not smart.  It springs 
out of my grasp so quickly I nearly knock myself in the head 
with it before it snaps back to almost smash my fingers into 
the doorjamb.

“Dammit!”

“Mac?”

I’m afraid to say my sleep-addled senses do not shed any 
pride onto the vaulted Marine Corps reflexes.  It takes me a 
moment to conjure up the owner of that voice.  The voice I 
dream of every night.

Of course it’s none other than Harmon Rabb, Jr.

“Harm?” I inquire sleepily.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he confirms.  Then he proceeds to ask one of 
the most asinine questions I’ve heard at this hour.  “Did I 
wake you?”

“No,” I retort, mustering quite a bit of sarcasm into my 
response for still being medically brain dead.  It’s not 
often that I get a good night’s sleep, but when I do, pity 
the person that awakens me from it.

“Can I come in?” He asks, subdued.

It’s 1:30 and Harm sounds as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as 
I would be at 10:30.  He must’ve never even went to sleep.  
Something must be up.

“Sure.”

I remember to unhook the chain from the door this time, and I 
barely pull it open before Harm pushes his way through.  He 
walks straight to the couch, turns around abruptly to face me 
with hands on hips.  His jaw falls open and his eyes bulge 
slightly out of his head.

It’s then that I recall my nightgown, really a euphemism for 
a black silk and lace chemise, something I threw on after my 
bath tonight, and the memory of the kiss in the parking lot.  
It seemed appropriate at the time.  It has a plunging 
neckline that nicely shows off my ample assets in that area, 
and a thigh-high slit up the right side, and a low back.  
Harm’s wearing the look I’ve always dreamed he’d wear if he 
ever saw me in such attire.

Raw desire, passion, guilt--no doubt for the racy thoughts 
flying through his head that his eyes betray--and regret, 
probably for never getting his head out of his six sooner to 
see exactly what was before him.  <i>His</i> marine dream.

Maybe it’s the interruption in sleep, but my brain suddenly 
takes on a life of it’s own as it enlists the help of my 
hormones and imagination, my body just the medium in which to 
execute this endeavor.  I swagger up to Harm like there’s 
nothing I’d rather do more than to shove him on my couch and 
have my way with him.  

Okay, so my brain is in touch with my hypothalamus there.

“Come here, flyboy,” I say in a voice so low I barely 
recognize it as my own.  He stands rooted to the spot in 
front of my couch, but his eyes are sweeping up and down my 
figure hungrily.  I notice they linger in a couple places 
longer than others.  I crook my finger at him and gesture he 
should come to me.  Come to me.

“Come to me,” I whisper.  It doesn’t really matter, I’m 
already standing before him at this point.  I let his eyes 
rove all over me, let him have his fill of my breasts which 
he tries desperately not to gape at—perhaps there’s still 
some vestige of his cherished officer-and-gentleman-persona 
still nagging at his brain.  I find I’m warmed at the thought 
of my well-bred sailor trying to be a good little flyboy, but 
I don’t think it will be necessary tonight.

I let his eyes wander for a moment longer and then I cast 
what inhibitions remain to the wind and fall into his arms.

He’s there to catch me, he always is.  

His mouth is hot and demanding and bruising and I press 
myself further into his crushing liplock.  Finally, he is the 
Harm of my dreams.  Passionate, needy, desperate.  He can no 
longer hide from me.  With each heated assault against my 
mouth I become more and more certain that Harmon Rabb, Jr. 
sees me as more than just Mac, the friend, that this is more 
than just bodies responding to lust, that this is more than 
anything either of us has ever experienced.  

He won’t be able to pretend like nothing happened tonight.  
He can’t any longer.  I won’t let him.  I know all his 
secrets.  Harmon Rabb, Jr. wants me.  He needs me.

He fingers are softly running the length of my spine, 
producing chills with each flourish as they encounter the 
silk of my gown, before sweeping up to start their trail 
again.  His other hand is wrapped gently but firmly around 
the nape of my neck and I swear if it wasn’t there I would 
slink to the floor in a silk and lace heap.  

My hands sweep through his jet-black hair, a little stiff 
from the styling gel he uses, but it feels great 
nonetheless.  He’s wearing Brut again, and I break away from 
our scorching kiss just so I can finally breathe in the 
wonderful scent of him.  I wrap my arms tightly around his 
neck and press my nose against the juncture of his neck and 
jaw and breathe deeply.  He chuckles softly at my actions.

“It’s Brut,” he whispers.  I knew it.

“It’s wonderful,” I say.  Heavenly.  “It’s you,” I tell him, 
and he smiles and kisses me again.

This is wonderful, too.  Heavenly.  I can’t believe I would 
have rather slept through this.  No dream can hold a candle 
to this.

“Oh, God, why is it I can’t resist you?” He whispers into my 
hair as he lights a fire from my cheek to my hairline.

If the butterflies in my stomach weren’t fluttering before, 
that statement sends them flying high.  

“Why do you try?” I whisper back, pressing feather kisses 
onto his temples, his forehead, his nose.

“I don’t know,” he sighs.  “Because I’m an idiot?” he asks, 
smiling a little.  I grin, but his grin fades and he pulls 
away.

Wh-what?  No.  I’m not ready to turn him loose yet.

“Speaking of which,” he begins, turning away from me, before 
looking back.  His hand reaches out to cup my face with one 
hand.  Like last Sunday, my hand encircles his wrist and 
holds it there as I brace myself for what’s coming.

The Big Confession.

Harmon Rabb, Jr. is finally going to tell me what an idiot 
he’s been for not realizing sooner that he was—is—in love 
with me.

It’s been a long time coming.

“I have a confession to make, Sarah.”  He pulls his hand 
away, and walks three steps away, and one step back.

Sarah.  Ooooh.  Good sign.

“Yes?” I ask, taking a seat on the couch.  The slit in my 
gown exposes plenty of my thigh, enough to distract Harm for 
a moment.  He actually shakes his head out of it, and I hold 
the two pieces of cloth together in an attempt for some 
propriety.

He stares at me for 28 seconds, and I’m starting to get 
nervous.  I’m also starting to get the impression I may not 
like what he has to say.

“I—well, when you guys found—well, maybe I should—hell, I’ll 
just say it.”  Is this about his crash?  Perhaps that’s when 
it finally became clear to him, that he loved me.  For me, it 
was just reaffirmation that I was in love with him.

“Go on,” I encourage.

“There aren’t any Superbowl seats.”

Huh?  I stare at him dumbfounded.  He rushes on to explain.

“I mean, there are, sort of.  I’m flying CAP for the 
Superbowl.”  Where’s my declaration of—huh?  I must’ve have 
fallen asleep again, because none of this is making any 
sense. 

“I thought it would be kind of funny, you know, to see what 
you guys would do about my alleged seats—“

‘Funny’?

“—So, I let you go on thinking that I had tickets.  Except I 
let it go on too far.  I know that.  Believe me, Mac.  I 
wasn’t trying to use you—I would never do that.”

So what would you call it?!

“It’s just, you were so sweet, and wonderful, and it was like 
when we were good friends again, before I left to fly, and I 
missed that and I loved having our old banter back.  And the 
flirting.  And the kissing.  That was a nice addition.” He 
smiles sheepishly, but when I don’t return it, it withers 
away.

“So,” I state.  “You never had any intention of taking me to 
the Superbowl.  At all.  Or Sturgis.”

He cringes.  “I’ll still take you, Mac.  I’d be more than 
happy to.  I just didn’t think you wanted a ride in a 
Tomcat.  Not to mention, you wouldn’t even be able to see the 
game.  You seem pretty keen on it.”

I could give a rat’s ass about the game if missing it meant 
being with you, my heart screams, but I ignore it.  I ignore 
all the logic that says I knew that this was a game, that I 
knew I was taking things a little too far, that I knew I was 
putting my heart on the line when my lips connected with his 
profile with the excuse it was just for a seat in New Orleans.

I just focus on the fact that once again Harmon Rabb, Jr. 
hasn’t been completely honest and forthcoming with me.  Like 
that night in Sydney, like that night on the Admiral’s porch, 
like when he didn’t tell me about his breakup with Renee.

“I’m sorry, Mac.” He says, watching me carefully.  My eyes 
are filling with tears, and I’m not even sure why.

He kneels down before me, and thumbs away one that slipped 
past my defenses.  “This is not how I wanted our relationship 
to come about,” he continues quietly, still touching my cheek.

I’m tired.  So tired.

“It’s late, Harm,” I say wearily, staring dully at his bangs, 
so I can avoid his penitent eyes.

“Sarah,” he tries again.

“I think you’d better leave now,” I choke out.  He doesn’t 
move, and my eyes break contact with his bangs to look into 
his green—and yes, penitent—eyes, before I hastily shift 
their gaze to something on the wall behind him.  I can feel 
his eyes boring into me before he nods dejectedly and stands 
up.  I don’t look at anything but that spot on the wall until 
I hear the door click shut and his footsteps fade into the 
distance.  

Then I at look at my lap and sigh.

8888********

1313 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA

“Morning, Mac,” Sturgis says as I enter the break room.

“What’s good about it?” I mutter.  I spent the last several 
hours mulling over the behavior of that infuriating bastard 
of a partner of mine.

“I didn’t say that it was.”  Sturgis takes a sip of his 
coffee.  “Is something wrong?”

“No, why would something be wrong?” I sneer.

“You seem kind of tense.”

“Hmph.”

“Uh-oh,” Sturgis says worriedly.

“What?” 

“Did you find out that Harm’s not going to take you to the 
Superbowl?”  He actually sounds upset for me.

“I’ve got news for you Sturgis.  Harm’s not going to take 
either of us to the Superbowl,” I state flatly.

“What?”

“Yeah, those primo seats he has?  They’re in the cockpit of 
an F-14.”

“Cool.”  I shoot Sturgis a look that would melt glass.  He 
adopts a more neutral _expression.  “So?”

“So?”

“You get to see the Superbowl in style, Colonel.  Well, 
relatively speaking.  I mean, you won’t get to see the game, 
but you can listen to it.  And Harm taking you up in his 
plane…”

“Oh, Harm knows very damn well that I get sick to my stomach 
in his precious Tomcat,” I spit out.

“Really?  A marine like you?” Sturgis asks.  I shoot him 
another withering glare and he wisely shuts up.

“He just…he just…” I seethe.  I don’t know what he just.  “He 
just must think I’m some sort of pathetic…thgfft…” I can’t 
even twist my lips around any coherent words or thoughts.

“Oh, I think Harm thinks very highly of you.” Sturgis replies 
mildly.  “He says you’re his RIO.”

“Skates is his RIO.”

“Skates is his RIO in his tomcat, but you’re his RIO in his 
life.”

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?  

I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I think I have just 
been paid one of the very highest compliments that Harmon 
Rabb could bestow.  

Vicariously, of course.

*********

2306 ZULU
NAS 
Pax River

I’m running late as usual, but I slow my steps anyway.  Mac’s 
waiting for me on the tarmac, still dressed in uniform.  
She’s been avoiding me all day, with exception to a few 
curt ‘Commander’s uttered here and there.  

I stroll up to her, trying desperately to think of something 
to say without screwing things up even more.  That’s a lost 
cause with me, and I know it.  The gift of eloquent prose 
with Mac is something that is beyond my capabilities as 
lawyer and human being.  Fortunately she speaks first.

“Sturgis told me something interesting today,” she says with 
little preamble.  I’m not sure what to say, and she doesn’t 
seem to expect a response from me, thankfully.

“He said you told him I was the RIO in your life.  You want 
to tell me what that means.”  She crosses her arms over her 
chest and waits.  

Great.  So she did manage to weasel some of our Vermont 
conversation out of Sturgis.  Fortunately, I may be able to 
save our friendship with this, so I hold off on killing 
Sturgis for a while longer.

“Just that…you are.”  Great.  Brilliant, Rabb.  “Like Skates 
is right there behind me,” I hurry on, “watching my six, 
helping me stay in the air, making me a good pilot, a better 
pilot.  She’s essential to a tomcat pilot’s effectiveness.  
All RIOs are.  You…you do the same sort of things.  You’re 
always there behind me, beside me, watching my six, helping 
me stay sane, making me a better lawyer, a better officer, a 
better friend.  You’re essential to my life…” I trail off.  
This is a lousy explanation.  She’s got tears in her eyes 
again.  I need to say something…something more heartfelt.

“Mac,” I change tactics, “I know none of this makes up for 
what I did, but, please--“

“Stop.”

I do and stare helplessly at her.  My super day and super 
flight is rapidly super-sucking.

She composes herself after a few minutes, but her hiccups 
give her away.  

“It’s kind of funny,” she says, and even laughs a little.  I 
manage a tiny smile myself.  “You’re sort of like the pilot 
in my life.”  She laughs even more now.  “Literally, and 
figuratively,” She qualifies.  “We’re quite a pair.”

“We’re a team,” I say.  Much like a pilot and RIO, I think.  
She seems to hear that, and nods.

“We’re more than that.” 

I stare at her, trying to decipher the exact meaning behind 
those words.  She looks at me without _expression.  I risk a 
glance at my watch.  I’m really late now.  I look at Mac.

“Go.”

I know she’s still upset with me.  I don’t want to leave 
things like this, but I’m not sure what to say or do that 
will make things better.  

“I’m sorry,” I offer.  She looks down and nods.  I still 
can’t make out what she’s feeling.  I pick up my bag and walk 
away.

“Harm?”

I turn around, surprised to find her so close to me already.  
She must have started following as soon as I turned away.  
She bites her lip nervously, as though she’s not sure what to 
say.  Then she stands up on tiptoe, places her hands on my 
shoulders and gives me a kiss on the lips.  Not long, deep, 
and passionate, but a nice lip lock that fits snugly between 
the confines of “just friends” and “lovers.”

“Good luck flyboy,” she whispers.  She places her heels back 
on the ground.  “Enjoy yourself,” she adds, smiling at me, 
her eyes still a little moist.

I feel a twinge of hope flutter deep in my stomach.  “I wish 
you were going,” I say wistfully.

“So do I,” She agrees.

“You still ca—“

“No.  I’d never get to enjoy it, and I sincerely doubt you 
want to hear me retching and moaning the whole time you’re in 
the air.”

I hear a discreet cough and glance up.  A petty officer taps 
his watch worriedly.  I look at Mac.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” I say again.  She shakes 
her head and gives me another kiss on the lips, this one 
longer than the first, her fingers on my cheeks before she 
slides them up into my hair.  I drop my bag and sweep her up 
in my arms.  We stay like that for some time before the need 
for air breaks us apart.

I place an impulsive kiss on her nose.  She sighs 
contentedly.  Then she smiles devilishly at me and runs her 
index finger over my wings.  

“You’ll think ‘sorry’ when you get back.”  She flashes 
another evil smile and walks away.

THE END