"Tidal"
By Slippin’ Mickeys
red_phile@yahoo.com

Classification: S, R, Mac/Harm

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Love jump-started by wind.

Spoilers: This takes place during the eighth season,
but there are no spoilers. 

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters in this story,
but I do own the words. Unfortunately, I’m not making
any money off of this. I say ‘unfortunately’ because I
wrote it while unemployed (still unemployed, as of the
publication date), and could really use the money.
Please don’t sue—you’ll only get the clothes off my
back and a toaster oven. Neither of which I’ll wash
for you.

Notes: This is my first ever JAG fanfiction, and what
a ride it’s been! I do hope you enjoy and don’t count
my lack of experience against me. Major thanks go out
to usnavychic for the beta and encouragement. Also
major thanks to smcsk8. 
___________________________________

TIDAL 
By Slippin’ Mickeys


When the moon circles the Earth, it pulls with it the
ocean.

She used to lay in bed and think about it—how the
world can be your compass. Moss growing on one side of
a tree, the North Star, sunsets on the horizon. And
even if you can’t see it, you know the moon is above
you when the tide is high. 

She felt that with him. When he was near, her blood
would sing, rising to meet him whenever he passed.
Standing in the doorway of her office, she can feel
him even now, her skin prickling and flushing on the
high tide of love.
_____________________________________


“You know, you could save yourself a step if you just
poured the sugar packets directly into your mouth.”

Mac tapped the stirring straw on the edge of her
coffee mug and ignored him. 

“You’re here early,” she said, looking up from her
desk to greet him. 

He had his cover tucked under one arm a large manila
envelope in his other hand. He scratched his chin with
its corner absently.

“Didn’t want to miss a cuppa from the first pot. If
you get here after eight, the coffee’s already weak.”

“Better not let Tiner here you say that,” she said,
blowing across the surface of her mug, “he’s trying to
market his blend.”

“The Law School Special Espresso?” Harm asked, sidling
up to her desk.

“I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s been around
for years.”

“Still not strong enough,” he said.

She took a demure sip and looked at him through her
lashes. “And I almost don’t have the heart to tell you
that I’m still making it.” 

“Huh,” Harm said, narrowing his eyes at her, “then I
guess I just like it when *you* make it.”

He dropped the envelope on her desk and backed out of
her office, flashing teeth.
_____________________________________

She was the reason he kept a digital clock in his
office and a bottle of sparkling cider in his fridge. 

She was five feet ten of haughty self assurance, and
not only could she pull off jarhead green, but she
could make it look good.

He couldn’t count how many languages she’d sworn at
him in, but he could remember the shape her lips took
every time she did. 

She was the reason he’d learned how to cook triple
meat-cheese lasagna, and she was also the reason he
breathed.

_____________________________________

For two people whose first week spent in each other’s
company involved being held at gunpoint, eluding
federal agents and a hostage situation, they were
surprisingly normal. What’s more, they were healthy,
employed, had all of their teeth and most of their
integrity. 

Granted, they had enough issues to start their own
magazine, but there was something to be said for the
fortitude it took to be as well-adjusted as they were.


It was probably that fortitude that kept them from
getting involved, and also why everyone else assumed
they eventually would. 

______________________________________


They were a half an hour into what Mac referred to as
the Mile High Trivia Hour. 

“The first flight attendants were actually registered
nurses,” he said, shifting in his seat and giving her
a sideways look. They both knew he could do better. 

“Betsy Ross was a born with a full set of teeth,” she
countered, letting it go. 

“Michigan has more lighthouses than any state in the
Union.” 

“There are 115 ridges around the edge of a quarter.” 

“Most American cars honk in the key of ‘F’.” 

“You win,” she said, conceding. Her attention usually
waned when he got on the subject of planes or cars,
and she wanted to head him off at the pass. 

He smiled victoriously and watched as the sun’s last
rays panned across her face.

Their plane was turning south for its final approach
into Chicago, and she turned to the window to watch as
the ground rose slowly to meet them. 

“Do you think they’ll recover the body?” She asked
after a moment, turning to him.

His countenance turned grim. “At this time of year?”
He asked for the sake of it, shaking his head.

She nodded silently and then unfolded his long pea
coat from around herself, handing it carefully back to
him. He took it without a word and pulled his leg from
the aisle so the flight attendant could get through. 

Civilian commercial flight was old hat for them and
they knew how each other worked. She was always cold
on planes, and he never fit in them. He always let her
borrow his coat when the weather necessitated his
bringing it, and he didn’t push as hard for an exit
row when it didn’t. 

“I hate these,” she returned, and he didn’t answer.
She knew he hated them, too. 

An investigation into the purported death of a seaman
taking part in a rescue exercise in Lake Michigan
conducted dually with the US Coast Guard awaited them
upon landing. The fact that the Coast Guard was
involved made the situation sticky, so the admiral had
sent them to aide in the investigation. 

The little boy in the seat in front them stood up in
his chair and stared at Harm over the back of the seat
as his mother was fiddling to stow her purse for
landing. A three-year-old look of impressed awe met
him, the boy immediately taken with the uniform. When
he shifted his gaze to Mac, he gave a squeak of fright
and ducked down, just as his mother turned to berate
him. 

Oddly embarrassed and a little hurt, Mac stole a
glance at Harm who looked at his fingernails,
pretending not to notice. 
______________________________________

The brittle November wind whipped at them as they
walked out the automatic door just this side of
baggage claim. Mac considered the names Chicago went
by; the Second City, the Third Coast, wondering how
many they’d gone through before they’d found one that
was apt. 

He looked so heroic in his uniform, with his coat
billowing out behind him and his cover tilted into the
wind. She tried to picture a little boy lost,
fatherless and alone in a world that wasn’t as
sympathetic to servicemen and their families. She felt
a pang of something between pity and pride and stepped
off the curb to follow him. If heroes were made in
such ways, then perhaps the world didn’t need them.
_______________________________________

For once, the investigation was going well. 

They were at a small Italian restaurant off of Navy
Pier, huddled together at a small table in the corner,
leaning toward each other, quiet and familiar. 

“I just think it’s ironic and unfortunate,” Mac was
saying, “that a man was lost during the very exercise
that would be sent to save him.” 

“Irony is rife with misfortune, Mac,” Harm said,
“otherwise they’d call it something else.” 

Mac rolled her eyes and Harm took a different tack. He
liked playing the devil’s advocate with her and she
was getting hip to his tactics. 

“The Navy needs to—“ 

She cut him off. 

“Don’t start,” she said, not without humor, spearing
an asparagus from his plate. 

He shot her a smile, knowing he’d been caught. 

The laugh lines around his eyes were gradually
reaching out toward his temples which were barely but
visibly now flecked with gray. She felt a pang of
affection toward him— her loping hero, tall and
tragic, wizened and incomplete. He struck chords in
her that rang resonant and deep and she desperately
wanted to reach across the table and smooth his
cowlick. 

His long legs touched hers under the table and she
reached for her water instead. 
_______________________________________

Some people made fun of the fact that the United
States Navy kept a port on the Great Lakes, but Harm
wasn’t one of them. 

The waves hitting the piles of the pier were big and
choppy, and the sky overhead dark gray and ominous. He
was reminded of a nasty fall day in his first year out
of the Academy, attending a funeral of a former
classmate in Detroit at the Maritime Sailors
Cathedral. Ian Douglas had been lost during a rescue
exercise, his death’s circumstances eerily similar to
those of the death they were now investigating. The
church’s bell rang that day—would chime once for every
man lost on the Lakes—and it would chime again when
their investigation was complete and Petty Officer
Albert Williams death made official.  

He looked down at Mac beside him and remembered when
he’d been lost at sea himself, how his first thought
had been of her. The cold from that day touched him
through the many layers of his warm, dry uniform and
he paused to collect himself. 

Mac sensed his delay and turned to him.

“Harm?” She asked, checking herself mid-step. “You
okay?” 

His eyes flashed to her unadorned left hand, carrying
their bag of Italian left-overs. 

“Yeah,” he said, catching up to her, “I’m good.”
_______________________________________

A flare of energy always passed through him whenever
he saw her out of uniform, testing his galvanic skin
response. He wondered sometimes if Clayton Webb and
his spy satellites could pick up on it. 

Their investigation had been wrapped up in four days,
and they weren’t scheduled to head back to Washington
until tomorrow afternoon. 

She was standing outside waiting for him, leaning
against a railing facing the other direction. 

When she turned to him, he started.

“When did you start smoking?” He asked, incredulous.

The smoke from her cigarette drifted up from her hand,
white and thick in the cold. A gust of wind came in
and took it suddenly. The end of the cigarette glowed
red.

“I didn’t,” she said to him, ignoring the look on his
face and taking a snappy drag. His face wore an
expression of jaundiced shock as a yellow streetlamp
came on above them. “I was talking with a lieutenant
out here while I was waiting for you. He offered me
one.”

“And you took it?” 

“I was cold.” She took another hit and looked at him
through the smoke, daring him to have a problem with
it.

He surprised her by reaching across and taking the
cigarette from her fingers. He raised his eyebrows at
her before raising it to his own lips, waiting for her
okay. She nodded at him and he took a deep drag,
holding her eyes with his own as he blew the smoke out
between them. 

She wondered how his lips would taste now, smoky and
bitter like ash.

He dropped the burning cigarette to the pavement and
ground it out with his foot.

“Let’s go,” he said, twisting his foot on the ashes
and walking away.

She licked her lips and followed, smacking the taste
of smoke against her tongue. She already knew from
experience, he would taste like nothing but sin.
_______________________________________

They were going to have a baby together. 

She remembered this as they walked and realized that
they only had a year to go before D day. Her stomach
flopped and then fell in her gut when she remembered
the small child on the plane. Between the two of them,
the only good parenting example they had was Harm’s
mother. She tried not to sweat the genes. 

She could see a little boy with her feathered wit and
his rapscallion smile. He would probably be born
breech—misbehaving from the womb.

A year. Less, really. 

She hadn’t had sex in a really long time. 
______________________________________

“You ever visited Chicago before, Mac?” He asked her
as they walked down the platform from the El. 

“Sure I have, Harm.”

“No, I know you’ve been here, but I mean have you
*visited*.” 

“Can’t say as I’ve ever had the pleasure,” she said
derisively. 

“Then you gotta see this.”

He took her to a rooftop on the main building of the
Naval Training Center. The door screeched as he turned
the handle and he had to shove it twice with his hip
just to get it open. They took a step through, each
scattering stones. 

He took her elbow delicately and led her to the other
side. 

Lake Michigan spread out before them, navy blue and
endless, whitecaps snapping up from it as the wind
blew in. 

“It’s beautiful up here,” Mac said, “though probably
nicer in the summer.” She leaned into him affably, not
meaning any offense. 

“I like it now,” he said looking out over the churning
water, “it seems more. . . dangerous.” 

Mac didn’t say anything, but she could see how. He was
like a magnet to jeopardy. 

He reached a hand out after a moment and pointed
northeast over the water. 

“Two hundred,” he said. 

“What?” 

“There are over two hundred planes that went down out
there,” he said, “during training missions in World
War II.” 

“It’s a hell of a profession you went after,” she
said, picturing him climbing down out of a fighter. 

“Yeah,” he said, flirting his eyebrows at her, “. . .
dangerous.” 

Mac wondered if maybe she wasn’t more like him than
she thought. After all, he was drawn to danger, and
she was drawn to him.
______________________________________

She was riding horses. 

There was a herd thundering all around her and the
horse she was riding, jet-black and steely, was
accelerating through a field at night, going ever
faster. The moon’s light was bright, shining down on
them and pushing shadows all around. 

She galloped to the front of the herd and they
splashed through a river, coming to an abrupt halt on
the shore. Harm stood there, wearing a Marine drill
sergeant uniform. 

“I thought I heard you coming,” he said, and then
disappeared through the trees behind him. 

When Mac looked down, she was sitting in the driver’s
seat of a Humvee. She looked to her passenger seat and
Harm was sitting there, this time in khakis, a white
polo shirt and a leather bomber jacket. 

“How did I get here?” She asked him. 

He looked at her like she was stupid. “You came
pushing sixteen horses,” he said. 

Mac came awake slowly, the low thread count sheets
scratching her cheek. She blew out a breath and rolled
over. A bizarre dream, no doubt, and Harm had been in
it. She was a little disappointed—she’d had better
where he was concerned. 

A knock came on her door and she rolled out of bed and
walked to it in her t-shirt and Navy shorts (that
somewhere along the way she’d stolen from him), not
bothering to put on a robe. 

“Morning,” Harm said as she opened the door, “I
brought you breakfast.” 

He offered a paper bag from Starbuck’s and she just
caught him running his eyes over her bare legs as she
turned back into the room. 

“Thanks, Harm,” she said, setting the bag carefully
down on the table next to the door. She then pointed
at one of the two chairs pushed up against it. He was
still standing in the open doorway. 

“Come in and have a seat,” she continued on into the
bathroom. “I’ve got to brush my teeth.” 

When she emerged, he was sitting at the table, his
long spindly legs sticking out into her room like
sprawling branches from a timbered tree. 

She threw on a Corps sweatshirt and sat down across
from him, crinkling the bag open and pulling out an
oversize blueberry muffin. 

“My favorite,” she said.

“I know,” he returned, finally meeting her eyes. 

She took a big bite and sighed blissfully.

“I had a dream about you last night,” she said with
her mouth full. 

“Yellow light, Colonel,” he said softly, trying to
hold back a smile. She pelted him in the head with the
crumpled up pastry bag. “What was I doing? In your
dream, I mean.” 

“Waiting for me, I think,” she answered. 

He folded his hands in his lap and studied them,
sobered. 

“Is that where we are now?” He asked quietly, pressing
his lips together and flitting his eyes to hers. 

She swallowed the muffin hard, wishing she had some
water. It was doughy and heavy going down. 

She opened and closed her mouth several times before
she finally spoke, leaning forward on her elbows.
“Don’t start a conversation you aren’t prepared to
finish,” she said. 

He looked at her a minute with his head bent, a
curious expression on his face. 

“Mac,” he said, seriously, “This conversation. . .
I’ve been waiting for you.” She leaned back, looking
at him. She was fairly certain any time she’d brought
it up, he pushed back, drop and chaff, you’re shoes
are untied—walking away. “In my own way. And you’ve
been waiting for me,” he continued, leaning forward so
that his pant cuffs drifted up his shins, revealing
black socks and the dark skin of his shin. “And we’ve
never been in the same place at one time.”

“Are we there now?” She asked him, crumbling off bits
of muffin but not eating them. 

“I’m there,” he said, reaching across tentatively to
run a fingertip over her arm on the table, “Are you?” 

The skin of her arm shivered under him, and she
resisted the urge to pull it back. 

They were good at arguing. Seeing the polar opposite
sides of things, and she automatically wanted to
prosecute, defend, tangle with him. They rarely played
for the same team, yet they were partners. 

Funny how that worked. 

He pulled his arm back and leaned back in the chair,
considering her muliebral features. Wide eyes and dark
hair, she reminded him of rich cocoa. He licked his
lips. 

“Our flight’s at three,” he said, “what time is it
right now?”

“Three minutes to eight,” she said, not moving. 

“Tell you what,” he said, standing. “I’ll be back here
in 35 minutes. Wear shoes you can walk in.” 

He paused as he passed by her, heading for the door.
He reached down and linked their pinkies together,
squeezing. The door shut behind him with a resonant
snick.
________________________________________

They walked along the deserted beach in silence,
stepping around jetsam and driftwood, the sand cold
and firm beneath them.

“You asked me once if I would have left Renee for
you,” he finally says. 

She remembers. 

“You never answered,” she said lightly. 

“I did answer.” 

That stopped her. The sand depressed as she twisted
slowly to face him. 

“I would have,” he said, looking right into her eyes,
“left her, I mean. But you walked away.” 

“It seems one of us is always walking away,” she said,
her hands in her pockets.

He shifted his shoulders up, hiking his jacket higher
around his neck. The breeze had died down from the day
before, but coming off of the lake it was bitingly
cold. Harm could see her breath. 

“We usually have somewhere to go,” he answered her,
quirking a smile with the side of his mouth. 

“Is that why you brought me out here?” Mac asked, “To
make sure I couldn’t go anywhere?” 

He laughed. “Something like that,” he said. 

They had driven outside of the city, north. There was
nothing here but sand and water and smokestacks in the
distance. 

They held eyes for a moment and then turned slowly to
face the water. Their arms touched but their hands
stayed ensconced in fabric. 

“Why now?” Mac asked him. 

“I guess…” He blew out a breath of steam, watching it
dissipate into nothing. 

The waves lapped lazily at the shore several yards in
front of them. Harm’s eyes were drawn toward a piece
of flotsam rolling in the soft wake just to the right
of them. He held up a finger to Mac, intending to
answer her question. He trotted down to the water’s
edge and retrieved it without much effort. 

It was an old coke bottle, with thick, greenish glass,
corked at the top. There was a rolled up note inside
and drips of condensation. A message in a bottle. 

He walked back up to where Mac was standing, holding
it in front of him considering it. 

“I guess it’s a little like this,” he said, handing it
to her. She took it gingerly, a precious herald that
wasn’t meant for her. She cocked her head to the side,
waiting for him to continue. 

 “If this were floating in the ocean,” he went on,
touching a fingertip to the cork, “it would be pulled
by the waves and the tide. Currents and jet streams
and all of the other forces that move the oceans as
they do. But these waves,” he turned and looked toward
the lake, “they’re not affected by the moon. The lake
doesn’t have currents or tides. The wind is the only
factor affecting their movement. Here, if there’s no
wind, there are no waves. This bottle would stay in
one place, floating lonesome until a gale came along
to push it.” 

Mac nodded at him, trying to pull together the
analogy. 

He took a breath and turned to her. “I’ve been
floating lonesome, myself,” he said, “I guess I just
needed the wind at my back.” 

Mac would like Chicago for the rest of her days. The
Windy City blustered fierce, but it blew love into her
life. 

_____________________________________

They were weather-beaten and dented, damaged goods.
Pretty on the outside, but slightly fucked in the
head. It was perverse the way it worked. They were
perfect for each other, there really could be no one
else. 

She reached up and ran her hand lightly over his
cheek. She wanted to kiss him but the timing didn’t
seem right. This was too profound a moment for them,
she knew if she kissed him she would be outside
herself instantly and right now she didn’t want to
miss a thing. 

He seemed to push into her hand slightly, leaning into
her touch. His eyes never left hers. His cheek was
sandpapery under her fingers and she remembered that
fingertips have more nerve endings than most places on
the body. Most. 

“I didn’t shave this morning.” 

“The clean-shaven officer?” she scolded lightly,
running her thumb over his chin. “That’s against
regs.”

“This,” he said, “is going to break all the rules.”
______________________________________


The military was all about convention and discipline.
How he’d managed to stay in this long was a complete
mystery to her. 

What would they do now? They both loved their jobs and
they were good at them. 

At times, she imagined them not as Batman and Robin,
but Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, riding the fence of
lawlessness right there under everyone’s noses. With
her luck, they’d probably get caught. 

Of course, with Harm in the equation, they’d probably
summarily get off.
____________________________________


They walked down the beach for a while not even
touching.

Mac laughed softly after minutes of silence. "This is
so strange," she said.

He gave a chuff of laughter himself, "Isn't it?" 

They laughed for a moment and the tension eased. Mac
slipped her arm through his.

"Let's forget about the rules for today," she said,
"we'll worry about the rest when we get home."

"Let's forget about them forever," he replied lightly,
"and not ever go back."

"Do you really want to do that?" Mac asked him,
knowing he didn't really mean it.

He stopped walking and turned to her. "You know what,
Mac, right now I really think I could."

She kissed him then, next to the inland sea, with its
thunder and it's messages, moved only by the wind.
____________________________________


He kissed her again in a museum with butterflies in
her hair.

They walked away from the lake, chilled but heartened,
and it was nearing dinner time when they walked
through the doors to the greenhouse.

Harm took her to Lincoln Park after they left the
beach, wanting her to see more of the city, wanting to
see more of her. In the car he’d called the office,
told them that something had come up and that they
wouldn’t be able to make their flight. Tomorrow was a
door they had to walk through, but at least they had
today. 

They passed by a science museum and Mac looked at the
list of exhibits outside and then pulled him in. The
woman working the box office told them they had only
an hour before the museum closed. They were looking at
the entrance kiosk when Harm felt a tug on his hand. 

"Come on," Mac said quietly, pulling him along as if
she had a secret to tell him. 

The greenhouse was quiet when they walked in, they had
it to themselves.

Harm glanced at the sign to the butterfly house as
they were walking under it. 

“What-” he began to say, but she turned and put a
finger to his lips. 

“Shh,” she whispered, “listen.” 

Harm listened. There, among the quiet greenery and the
gurgling fountain, he could hear the whisper of
butterfly wings. 

This was peace, he thought. This was a moment only for
them. Amid the chaos of their lives, they would at
least have this. He squeezed her hand and closed his
eyes, capturing a moment of rapture. 

When he opened them, Mac was looking up with a small
fascinated smile on her face. A butterfly had landed
in her hair. 

This woman before him, she was the nectar to his soul,
the balm that smoothed the rough edges of it,
replacing the torn off pieces and feeding it, keeping
it whole. It was as if the butterfly had sensed this
too and wanted a taste of it for itself. 

He nudged his foot between hers and leaned down, her
breath fanning his face once before their lips met. 

This kiss wasn’t hungry or desperate as had their
first real kiss been, on the Admiral’s porch. It
wasn’t a nostalgic grasp at his past as it had been
when he’d imagined her as Diane. This was soft and
deep and felt like coming home. 

He felt her fingers tangle in his hair and pulled back
barely an inch, nipping lightly at her nose before
whispering. 

“Are you feeling this?”

A chrysalis split open; a butterfly took it’s first
flight.
_____________________________________


How lucky was she in a world he inhabited that she
could never be lost. Her compass, her friend. As
untouchable as Luna and as reliable as the same.

The moon’s light was cold and lazy, the darkness
around them inky—if they stepped too far away from
each other it might swallow them whole. She could tell
he was next to her when she saw his breath and felt a
heat on the small of her back. He led her through an
open door. 

Mac rubbed her hands together, shooting him a
skeptical look. 

“Ice cream, Harm?” She said dubiously.

“What?” He asked, all innocence. 

“For one thing it’s 40 degrees outside. For another,”
she gave a showy look to the freezer case, perusing
the flavors, “I don’t see Tofutti Vanilla Dream.” 

“So we’ll order yogurt,” he said, taking a step closer
to her, leaning into her space, “and I’ll keep you
warm.” 

She imagined a spilled glob of hot fudge on his chin
and her licking it off. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad
idea. 

She was a tall woman, but he seemed to grow bigger the
longer he stood over her. She felt small standing
there in the empty ice cream parlor, all of Harm’s
attention focused on her. 

His search for his father, his Sisyphean task, was
ended now. He had no one else to focus on save her,
with her dipsomaniacal thirst and her sober stare. How
strange that she didn’t feel threatened. How strange
that she didn’t feel weak.

The teenage girl behind the counter heaved a bored
sigh and shoved off the countertop behind her, picking
at hot pink fingernail polish. She flitted her eyes to
them, paying half attention. 

“What can I get you?” She asked, without a trace of
enthusiasm. 

“Two of those,” he said, pointing to an interesting
flavor. Mac didn’t really care which one. 

“With hot fudge,” she was sure to add, biting her lip.
________________________________________

“So,” he said, walking her to her quarters. 

He waited for her to pull out the key and she fiddled
with it on purpose, drawing out their time together in
increments. 

“So,” she said. 

It had started to snow. Light, dusty flakes that would
melt as soon as they hit the earth. A shot across the
bow from winter. ‘I’m coming,’ it said. 

Something else was coming too, though Mac didn’t dare
hope what it was.

She looked at the ground, suddenly blushing, hoping he
would think it was the cold.

“Do you want to come in?” She asked, meeting his gaze.


“Mac…” he said, not moving. “I can’t.” 

She flinched slightly, a bit stung though she knew she
didn’t need to be. 

He reached out to her, an act of solace. “It’s not a
question of wanting,” he said. 

She felt suddenly stupid. Of course they couldn’t. Not
now, and certainly not here. She turned around quickly
and jammed the key in the door. “Right,” she said,
feigning indifference, “of course.” 

He pulled on her elbow and she turned back to him. He
leaned in and kissed her soundly and quickly, running
his tongue against the inside of her upper lip before
pulling back. She was breathless and surprised. He
flitted his eyes in both directions, making sure they
hadn’t been seen; squeezing her elbow, he took a step
back. 

“We’ll figure this out,” he said decisively, with his
head bent towards her in that way he had of assuring
even the most guilty defendant that they’d get off. Of
course she believed him. When it came to him she was
guilty as sin.

He walked backward several steps holding her gaze and
then trotted off toward his own room.

Mac swayed a bit on her feet and slapped the doorway
with her hand, holding herself up. It took her a
moment to walk through the door and slam it. 

He was right and he drove her crazy. He would probably
be really good in bed. 
_____________________________________

She’d asked him once if she was good for him. 

He was wrapped up in changing careers, and she was
wrapped up in Mic. He’d been acting pissy and
infantile and he was in a bad mood when Mac wasn’t
around and a worse one when she was. Renee chose to
ignore his attitude and expedited it by flying to LA
on business. 

He’d snapped at Harriet in the bullpen and had felt so
bad about it, he was skulking in his office. 

He heard his door snap shut and looked up quickly. Mac
was standing akimbo just inside the doorway. She
didn’t look happy. 

“What the hell was that all about?” 

“By all means, please come in, Colonel,” he said
derisively. 

“Cut the crap, Harm,” she said, softening only a bit
and taking a step closer to his desk, “what’s going on
with you?” 

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he sighed, relenting his attitude. 

She moved to the chair across from his desk. 

“You know Harm,” she said, “I think I know you better
than anybody, but sometimes I just can’t figure you
out.” 

“I can’t figure me out, Mac,” he said, “I’m surprised
you’d even want to try.” 

“Don’t change the damn subject,” she said, trying to
contain a small smile but failing. 

He smiled at her and dropped his eyes to the floor. “I
guess it’s just you and this whole…” he sighed
heavily, “I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to Harriet, not to me,” she said, crossing
her arms and leaning back in her chair. She seemed to
consider him a moment after he nodded, agreeing.

“If it’s me. . .” she finally said, “Do I do this to
you?”

He didn’t say anything. She messed him up inside, but
only in the best ways he could think of. 

“God Harm,” she said, “sometimes I don’t think I’m any
good for you.”

That surprised him and he looked up. 

“You’re the best part of me,” he said quickly, simply.

She narrowed her eyes at him and opened her mouth to
say something. 

His phone rang then, Renee calling to tell him she’d
arrived at the airport, her timing impeccable as ever.


He rolled over in his bed, remembering. The best part
of him was sleeping four doors down, and he was
restless until he could be with her. For now he was
incomplete.
_____________________________________

“Jesus, Harm, you look like hell.” 

Not exactly the romantic greeting he had in mind, but
it was certainly to the point. 

“Colonel MacKenzie,” he said, nodding to her as they
met outside his room. The visiting officer’s quarters
were crawling with people. “I’ll drive,” he said,
taking her bags from her and popping the trunk. 

She was settled in the passenger seat by the time he
got in. He put on his seat belt and turned to smile at
her before he put the keys in the ignition. 

She reached across the console then, putting a hand on
his arm. 

“I wasn’t kidding, Harm, you look awful,” she said,
her forehead wrinkled in worry, “did you sleep at all
last night?” 

“I’ll sleep on the plane,” he said, looking away. His
arm was tingling under her touch. 

She rubbed her thumb against his jacket absently. 

“Why the plane?” She asked, still concerned. “And not
your bed?” 

He huffed a self-depreciating laugh and gave her a
look askance.

“You’ll be there,” he said, as if it was the most
obvious thing in the world. 
______________________________________


A billboard flashed past, advertising car parts. He
stole a look at Mac in the passenger seat. Her collar
was a bit crooked, she’d obviously been distracted
this morning. He wanted to reach over and fix it. He
wanted to reach over. 

He’d never been a terribly sentimental person, but Mac
brought out feelings in him he never thought himself
privy to. 

He remembered coming out of the movies as a kid,
inspired by the action. Running down the sidewalk
ahead of his mother like a space commander, like a
soldier, like a cowboy. In ‘Prometheus Unbound’
Shelley wrote about Life, Joy, Empire and Victory,
inspired by the beauty of Rome. Sitting in a car with
Mac, Harm decided that three out of four weren’t bad.
And in the gossamer memory of a kiss, he felt almost
as if he could conquer the world. 

Not that Mac would condone any such action. She’d
probably grab him by the nuts and make him go home. 

She caught him smiling at the thought. 

“What?” she asked, grinning herself. 

It had snowed a bit the night before and the roads
were slushy. A plow roared by them, showering sparks
on the asphalt. 

“Nothing,” he said, flicking on the windshield wipers,
not really trusting himself to speak. 

______________________________________
	

The dust of autumn was blown away by the winter wind.
It puffed in a cloud and then settled softly into the
empty places once filled by regret.

Mac was glad for the change. This seasonal shift was a
metaphor, sure, but the temperature dipped just as
true. Her stomach did too when she saw him. 

He’d carried her bags for her and touched her cheek.
He wore stripes on his shoulder and his heart on his
sleeve. He’d never done that before, really. He liked
to think that he kept his emotions masked—a shrug of
the shoulders, a tilt of the head—but she always knew
what he was thinking. The world knew now. He wore his
affection for her like a medal on his chest. She
thought she caught him humming the theme from An
Officer and a Gentleman as they were checking their
luggage. 

To hell with the rules, she thought carelessly, openly
admiring the way his pants fit his hips. If everyone
followed the rules, they’d both be out of a job.

_____________________________________


She drew the eye of nearly every man in the airport,
and some of the women too. He was used to it, of
course, but now something felt different.  He fought
off his initial flare of proprietary jealousy by
telling himself that it was the uniform. But after he
caught a Northwest copilot biting his fist, he took a
step closer to her and started shooting looks. 

She pulled up short when they were halfway to their
gate and turned to him. “Do you want me to just stop
walking so you can pee in a circle around me?” She
asked him. 

He looked to the side sheepishly, knowing he’d been
caught. 

“Commander?” She said, not without humor, “I’m sure I
can find an airport worker to put up a Wet Floor sign,
and you can just growl if anyone gets too close.” 

He glared at her with a quiet glimmer in his eye. 

“Harm,” she said, her tone a little more gentle, “I’m
not going anywhere.”
 
“Everything just feels,” he began, “. . .tenuous.” 

She regarded him for a moment and then reached up and
kissed him right on the lips, there in the middle of
the airport terminal. 

“Cemented a little more there, sailor?” She stood
there staring up at him, looking defiant and
nonchalant. Her lips were glistening; it was driving
him mad. 

After a stunned moment he shook himself. 

“You’re hopeless, Rabb,” she said. “Every person in
this airport can see right through you.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” He said after a moment. 

“Right now? It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled at him and he stood up a little straighter.
“Come on, flyboy,” she said, pivoting in the direction
of their gate, “if you promise not to kill anyone
between here and Washington, I promise not to run off
with any flight attendants.” 

He grinned at her and offered her his arm. “I’m not
making any promises.”

She flitted away the comment. 

“Thank you,” she said, slipping her arm through his. 

“My pleasure,” he replied. 

And it was.

_______________________________________

He’d once heard love described as friendship caught on
fire. And if Mac’s flammable singularity had endeared
her to his mind, it had most certainly lit the tinder
of his heart.

They parted ways at the baggage claim in Dulles. He
walked backward away from her, his steps sluggish and
reluctant. 

They’d agreed to talk to the Admiral tomorrow, though
neither was really certain what they’d say. Harm
didn’t worry terribly much at what that might be; the
JAG had to have seen this coming. He did worry though,
about the other end of the conversation. The solution
seemed hazy and pragmatic, but at least the problem
was manifest. 

If only the path ahead of him were just as so. For
once in his life he was more interested in the journey
than the destination.

_______________________________________

He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and jeans and he
looked strong and young and positively sexy. She
indulged for a moment in the look of him from a purely
female perspective. He was tall and thick through the
shoulders, lean through the waist. He could pull off a
uniform and just about anything else he wore. Though
if she were being honest with herself, she wanted
little more than to see him in anything but his
shadow.

He turned to her then and a smile lit his face. In the
second of seeing her, he was  radiant and focused,
glowing. He had the look of someone who had walked
into serendipity and could keep it in his pocket. 

“Hey,” he said, surprised but pleased, “what are you
doing here?” 

He’d been organizing his desk drawers and trying to
sort out his life. There were things he’d kept that he
had no real need for but refused to part with because
they’d been touched by her. A notebook she’d doodled
in, a movie stub, a book full of lawyer jokes she’d
gotten him as a gag. He recognized the pang of
juvenile sentimentality for what it was, but shoved
them back in the drawer just the same.

She was more than a match for him, which he hadn’t
dared hope to find, and certainly not in one as
bewitching as she. He’d never been able to pull
anything over on her. She was leggy and secure and
sharp as a trephine. Every little look from her shook
him up inside.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said on a contradictory yawn,
slipping off her shoes like she owned the place.

She moved around his luggage that was still sitting by
the door and to the couch. She flopped down, slouching
out of her jacket. He walked up to her and took it
without a word, hanging it on a coat rack. 

“Why not?” 

She had her legs tucked under her in the corner of his
couch, curled up like a cat. 

“I don’t want to be in the office tomorrow,” she said,
“tiptoeing around each other like there’s nothing
between us.” 

Harm had been hoping it was something a little more
sinister than guilt and apprehension. He sighed and
sat down on the other end of the couch. 

“In all of our time working together,” he said, “have
we ever pretended there wasn’t?” 

Mac’s head dropped back against the sofa, conceding
the point. 

“I keep oscillating,” she said, rolling her head to
look at him, “between contempt and apathy for the Navy
rules concerning fraternization, and the complete and
abject fear over breaking them.” 

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Of course, I’ve
always been kind of good at breaking the rules.” He
could think of a few he wanted to break right now. 

“You are quite adept,” she agreed, laughing. 

He laughed with her.

“Is it rubbing off yet?” He asked, flashing a grin and
leaning toward her. 

He caught a pillow to the head. 

She finally sighed out a last bit of laughter and
caught his eyes, sobering. “I shouldn’t have come
over.” 

He was unexpectedly hurt, but she made no move to get
up from the couch. They weren’t even touching and he
didn’t want her to go. He was on his best behavior. 

“Why did you come over?” He asked. 

“I guess I’m looking for reassurance,” she looked at
the ceiling, “that this is going to work out. That
we’re not about to jeopardize our careers and our
lives as they are for something as impulsive and
un-military as. . .” 

“Love?” He finished for her. She turned to look at him
again, one eye slightly obscured by a lock of hair. “I
can’t give you that kind of assurance, Mac.” 

“No one can,” she said, a smile turning up the corners
of her lips. “That doesn’t stop me from wanting it
anyway.” 

They sat in a comfortable silence, contemplating the
deep water they found themselves treading. 

“You know that song by REO Speedwagon?” he said,
suddenly.

“Oh God,” Mac replied, her eyes flitting to his guitar
and back, “please don’t.” 

He shot her a smile and got up, the couch creaking
underneath him. 

“Do you want some tea?” He asked. 

“I’d love some,” she said.

He banged around in the kitchen and Mac closed her
eyes at the domesticity of the moment. She imagined
that this was her life, here with him. It dawned on
her suddenly that it was. The screaming of the teapot
made her jump.

He finally handed her a steaming mug and settled back
down, turning to her in full. 

“We’ve been standing on an edge,” he said, “and it
cuts.”

She merely looked at him a moment without answering.
It was as if he’d been speaking  antiquated words and
it was taking her a moment to figure out exactly what
he’d been trying to say.

“That it does, Commander,” she replied, taking a sip
of the brew. “Tomorrow’ll be one for the books.”

_______________________________________

Saying the words to their commanding officer had
actually been easier than she thought it would be. 

They were in front of him now, electing to stay
standing as if the weight of their situation might not
ever allow them to get back up were they to sit.
Chegwidden remained impassive throughout their
oratory, a finger pressed to his temple. They’d
finished what seemed several minutes ago and the
silence from the admiral was ostensibly a punishment
in and of itself. Mac fought the urge to fidget. AJ
took a breath. 

“Commander,” he said, and Harm snapped-to. 

“Sir?” 

“I’ll see you Monday morning. I’d like to talk to the
Colonel.”

“Sir?”

“Dismissed, Commander.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

Harm nodded and caught Mac’s eyes as he turned to
leave. He gave her the briefest nod and a shot of
courage passed between them. It was a look that could
only be shared by those who had been in and were about
to go into battle again. 

She stood a bit straighter as the office door closed.

“You love him.” It wasn’t a question.

He’d chased her, killed for her, saved her from
gunslingers and superiors and he’d saved her from
herself. He trusted her and pined for her and paid her
the respect she was due. How could she not love him?
How could she possibly be expected to resist? 

“Yes.” 

The admiral nodded, confirming his suspicion. 

“If I have to reassign one of you?” 

Their eyes held one another’s though Mac wouldn’t
answer. 

The admiral nodded at this, too. 

“Dismissed, Colonel,” he said, “you two have a good
weekend.” She caught the flicker of a soft smile as
she turned, but she couldn’t quite make out it’s
tenor.

______________________________________

When Harm parked his car at home, he sat for a moment
with the engine shut off. It had dawned on him that
somewhere in the surrounding few days, be they ahead
or behind him, the course of his life had reached a
dividing point. It would now consist of two halves.
Before he’d given his heart to Mac, and after. 

The enormity of that thought left him a bit shaken. He
left his wallet, briefcase and coat in the car and
went for a walk.

Thunder rumbled in the distance; a storm was brewing.

_____________________________________


There was an old black man sitting on a blue milk
carton outside a barbershop, selling flowers. Harm was
a half a step past when he checked himself and turned
around. He eyed a small bouquet of daisies, and then
patted his pockets, realizing he’d left his wallet in
his car. “How much?” He asked, nodding in their
direction. 

The old man was humming James Taylor and rocking
softly to his own beat. He paused when Harm spoke.

“How much you got in your pocket?” 

Harm dug deep. 

“Seventeen cents,” he held out in front of himself
self-consciously. He shook the small heap of change,
hoping to eek out more. 

The man nodded once and leaned forward, peering into
Harm’s cupped palm. He reached forward slowly and took
some change. 

“Sixteen,” he said, handing Harm the best looking
bunch. “Never leave a man without a copper in his
pocket, at least.” 

The transaction was complete, and the old man hummed
his song. Harm turned back towards home, an officer
with an armful of daisies.

____________________________________

He wasn’t surprised at the knock on his door. He was
in the process of changing out of uniform and opened
it in a t-shirt and dress pants, his feet bare. 

The displaced air lifted up the edges of Mac’s hair in
a quick puff and then was gone. 

“I got fired,” she said, her face serious.

“What?!” He asked, incredulous.

She held her expression for a moment more and then
released it. The grin she wore was more sly than he
was used to. 

“You’re a cruel woman, Sarah Mackenzie, I shouldn’t
let you in,” he said, even as he opened the door wide
to admit her. She passed under his arm, still
grinning.

“So,” he said, closing it behind her, “what did the
Admiral say?” 

“Wouldn’t you just like to know,” she replied,
flicking an eyebrow up coquettishly. 

It couldn’t have been that bad, Harm thought, she was
openly flirting with him. He hoped. 

She stood there in the middle of his apartment, her
eyes holding his. 

“He said to have a good weekend,” she finally said. 

“Did he?” Harm replied, taking a step closer to her. 

“He did.” 

“Those were his exact words?” He asked, standing right
in front of her. 

“His exact words were ‘you two have a good weekend,’”
she said, having to tilt her head back to meet his
gaze. 

He took a moment to digest that and squinted at her. 

“Now I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I take
that to imply that he’d like us to spend the entire
weekend together.” 

“Is there some Naval handbook that I never got on
decoding the pleasantries of superior officers?” She
said, tilting her head in that way she had of engaging
in banter with him. 

“You don’t want to spend the weekend with me?” 

“I’m just trying to understand how a simple ‘have a
good weekend’ not only condones 48 hours of
fraternization, but also suggests it.”

He was gradually getting closer and closer to her; she
could smell his aftershave. 

“We told the Admiral,” he said, his face only inches
from her own, “it’s out of our hands now, Mac. The way
I see it, we’ve been absolved of any misconduct by the
anticipatory informing of our commanding officer.” He
leaned even closer. “It’s not our fault he can’t do
anything until Monday.” She nodded her head at this,
fractionally. It was a tenuous conclusion he’d drawn,
but she was having trouble arguing with it—she was
distracted by his proximity. And his smell. “And
you’re evading my question, counselor.” 

“Your question?” It came out as a whisper.

“Do you want,” his lips nipped at hers with a gossamer
touch, “to spend the weekend with me?” 

Her eyes were heavy-lidded and she didn’t answer for a
moment. 

“What the hell,” she finally said, and his mouth
descended on hers in a torrent. 

The storm outside broke as well. The moon was
overhead.

_______________________________________

The night would pass by without serious incident, but
not without it’s moments. 

For now few lights burned in the apartment and the
bouquet of daisies sat forgotten on the counter. 

Mac straddled her partner on the edge of the bed that
she’d been wanting to test for years. She tasted him
for a moment and then pulled back, her mouth hovering
over his. She didn’t move, though her eyes flicked
around the room. 

“What is it?” He whispered. 

She smiled down at him. “Just. . . Savoring this,” she
said, though really she was waiting for something to
happen. For a knock at the door or the phone to ring,
for him to change his mind. 

Nothing came. Rain patted down on the glass, beading
on his windows. Sounds from outside were muffled, as
if the universe had seen fit to cocoon them tonight,
leaning over a bit of writing so no one else could
see. 

Fate’s sopher certainly had a sense of humor, she
thought. His fingers traveled up her arms, light as a
feather, a whisper of wings along her skin. She
finally felt the draw of flight.

So this is what he feels, she thought, so this is what
he loves.

_______________________________________


Some people were born to it. Things just happened to
them. Whether it was an astrological assignment of
being born under a certain sign, or a scientific law
that hadn’t yet been discovered, there were souls out
there that happenstance followed around like a forlorn
puppy. Harm was one of them. 

In his case, it was usually danger or drama that found
him, and he seemed to be forever tethered between the
two, east of the Rock and west of the Hard Place.    

Since being partnered with him, Mac had been sucked
inexorably into his vortex of episodic phenomenon, and
he felt a twinge of guilt at the unscrupulous nature
of its assignment. She likely hadn’t pictured herself
in a future of such blatant unpredictability. He knew
she wanted a normal life; a long and distinguished
career in law, a husband, children, PTA meetings and
anniversary diamonds, all safely enclosed in the
proverbial white picket fence of American domesticity.


She had to know what she was getting into—choosing a
future with him in it—she was a smart woman. The
knowledge that she’d done so anyway both broke his
heart and buoyed it at the same time.

As he watched her sleep next to him, he brought a hand
unconsciously to his heart. He’d never before
considered love a physical sensation. This woman, he
thought to himself, he ached for her.
______________________________________

They’d each fought against the singular attraction
that they felt for each other. They’d tried ignoring
it and masking it and burying it. They’d each tried
replacing it. With every attempt at denial it seemed
to manifest itself more aggressively until finally
they gave in to it. After such a long fight, Harm was
a bit thrown at how easy that had been. 

This however, was the challenge; the living of it.
Playing it any other way would have been safe. You
couldn’t get burned if you stood outside the fire.  

He remembered cases they’d worked and endless hours
they’d put in. Their lives together had held more than
a fair amount of adventure and excitement, but the
quiet times were the ones he truly coveted. 

When they worked late and the office had emptied out,
he’d sometimes put on some music. He kept several CDs
in his desk drawer, but Mac had always been partial to
Paul Simon’s Graceland. One day he’d take her to
Africa, to Memphis.

Two weeks ago, he thought, he was in the wrong lane,
but going in the right direction. He’d been taking it
slow with Mac for years, being ever so careful. He
swallowed a breath and steeled himself. Overcorrection
could make you lose control. 

Angels in the architecture, they reached for lo mien. 

He rolled out of bed and watched her sleep, standing
guard over her dreams. He would hold on to this
moment, too. 
_______________________________________

She came awake slowly, stretching like a cat
languorously in the warmth of the bed. She knew
without looking that he was no longer lying next to
her. She could hear him in the kitchen, trying to be
quiet in that loud way of men. 

It was odd, how many times she’d been in his
apartment, and yet this vantage point was completely
foreign to her. She debated as to whether or not she
should get up, but decided against it. The view may be
strange, but she liked it. Surrounded here by his
things, she felt—somewhat abstractly—as if he’d
finally let her in. 

There was an especially loud crack from the kitchen
and she heard his muffled curse. A moment later he
approached and she pretended to be asleep. The
mattress dipped near her hip as he sat down next to
her. 

“Faker,” he said a moment later, and she smiled and
opened her eyes. 

He was smiling down at her himself, his eyes crinkled
with affection. She returned his grin, feeling
somewhat shy and took the steaming mug he held toward
her, shifting up the bed to sit.

“Did I wake you?” He said, looking pained at the
thought. 

“Not at all,” she replied, burying her nose in the
aromatic steam of her mug. 

He took a sip from his own, and they each sat somewhat
sheepishly as a silence stretched on. 

This was ridiculous, Mac thought to herself,
considering some of the things they’d done the night
before. Neither of them had been shy. 

She set her mug down on the nightstand next to her and
leaned forward, letting the sheet fall away from her
chest. She pushed her lips against his and stole one
quick kiss, lingering in front of him for a moment. 

“Good morning,” she said, and then leaned back,
enjoying the startled, pleased look on his face. 

“Good morning,” he returned, setting down his own mug
and looking at her. She felt as if he were drinking
her in instead. 

He rose and reached down, squeezing her knee through
the sheets. He moved to the other side of the bed and
flopped down next to her. 

“How did you sleep?” He asked, propping himself up on
his elbow. 

“I didn’t much,” she said slyly, “but you already knew
that. You were there.”  

He grinned at that, looking smug. He ran a hand over
his chest contentedly. 

“You look good when you wake up,” he said without
preamble. 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me first thing
in the morning,” she said. 

He reached out and took her hand in his. It was
impossibly warm beneath her fingertips and soft as
silk. 

“Not like this,” he said.
______________________________________
Sometimes, in flashes, she’d wonder at the thought of
him wanting her the way he did. Like all women, she
was never quite convinced at her own attractiveness,
no matter how much evidence to the contrary was
presented her. That he—this man who was himself
alluring beyond all fairness, who always seemed to be
preoccupied with matters far more important than
love—would want her with the passion he seemed to,
stunned her. 

It was also quite confidence-inspiring. She felt
courageous and cavalier with the knowing of it. 

She lured him into the rain. 
_______________________________________

Mac was standing in front of his big plate-glass
window wearing one of his button-down shirts that was
three sizes too big. He came up behind her and wrapped
his arms around her waist. 

“It stopped raining,” she said, leaning back into him.
He felt somewhat disappointed. The rain made his
apartment feel more secluded and cozy.  

He didn’t say anything, but sighed. 

“What was that for?” She asked him, catching his eyes
in the reflection from the window. 

“It was a sigh of contentment,” he answered, burying
his nose in her hair. 

“Do you mind giving me a ride to my place this
morning?” She asked him, “I want to pick up some
things.” 

“What kinds of things?” He said, beginning to nibble
at her neck.

“Clothes, mostly,” she said, distracted.

“I don’t know. I don’t intend to let you keep them on
for very long.” 

“Confident, aren’t we?” She said, suddenly stepping
away from him playfully. He leaned forward after her
as if magnetized. “Come on, Rabb,” she said,
sauntering off to where her discarded uniform waited,
“be a gentleman.”

She purposefully walked with her hips swaying a little
more than usual and his thoughts took a decidedly
ungentlemanly turn. 

An hour later he found himself standing in her living
room while she shuffled about in her bedroom, taking
more time to pack for a day and a half than any Marine
should. 
______________________________________

How is it that he deserves this, he wonders later,
dripping wet and sodden. He can feel bubbles squish
their way up between his toes whenever he takes a
step. How did he manage to find what others have
searched their entire lives for? His clothes, soaking
wet, stick to him like a second skin and he sends up a
prayer of thanks. He’s clearly one lucky son of a
bitch.

“Ready,” she said, standing in the doorway of her
bedroom with a small backpack slung over one shoulder.


He turned to her from examining a framed picture of
Chloe that he’d seen a million times. Thunder rumbled
in the distance, the promise of more foul weather.
Harm recollected vaguely that the sailors in Chicago
had called it the Witch of November. 

That flare of energy he got at seeing her out of
uniform was back again and this time it passed between
them. He opened the door for her and led her out
without a word. 

They paused in the entranceway of Mac’s building.
Somewhere in between her apartment and the front door,
the rain had begun anew. Harm had parked just north of
her building, not two blocks away. He turned to her. 

“What do you think, Marine? Do we make a run for it?” 

She smiled at him then. 

“Haven’t we already?” She said, taking a step
backward, pushing the door open with her elbow. 

He cocked his head at her, squinting in question. She
flashed him one more smile and then stepped into the
rain, turning south. 

He’d taken risks in his life and she’d pulled his can
out of the fire more than once. He knew he was a brave
man, but admitted (if only to himself) that perhaps he
could use a bit of work on his impulse control. He had
no wish to lie in Flanders Field.

He stood a moment watching her from the relative
safety of the building’s entrance. He could work on
impulse control tomorrow—he followed her into the
downpour.
_________________________________________

She heard his splashy footfalls behind her and turned,
waiting for him to catch up. The rain was pouring
down, she could feel the water soaking her shoulders
and dripping off her hair. He grabbed her arm as he
reached her, but didn’t try to lead her anywhere. 

“What are we doing out here?” He asked, standing in
front of her, beside her. 

She finally realized that that was the difference
between him and everyone else she’d ever loved. He
stood beside her. He always had.

“Well, I was going to ask you a question,” she said,
“but you already answered it.”

His shoulders were hunched up against the cold and wet
and he gave her a questioning look.

“You followed me,” she said simply.

A gust of wind came in then, bringing still more rain
with it, now coming in almost sideways.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” he said. 

She was soaking wet and giddy. She grinned like an
idiot.

“You’re crazy!” He shouted above the roar of the
downpour around them. She knew he’d never seen her so
madcap and juvenile. These were the things he invoked
in her. Insane crashes of love, she couldn’t help but
act her shoe size.

“I know!” She yelled back, thunder punctuating her
admission. 

She felt crazy. Wild, happy. A laugh bubbled up from
inside her. 

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like a
soaked cat; miserable and bewildered. But there was
something else in his look, too. An air of intrigue
and affection surrounded him and it made her knees a
little bit weak. 

Impossibly, the rain seemed to fall harder in a great
whoosh around them. 

“I love you!” She suddenly shouted, almost bending
double in the effort to be heard above the din of
rushing water. 

“What?” He yelled above the roar. 

“I said I love you!” She yelled again, laughing. 

A smile bloomed across his face, even as rain poured
down it in rivulets. He shook his head, laughing, and
then took one great stride to her, catching her mouth
with his. 

They walked down the street, caught in the rain,
caught up with each other. Too warmed by the look of
the other to be cold. If anyone bothered to pay them
any attention, they’d see nothing but two people
smiled upon by Eros. 

He took her home and wrapped her in a blanket and she
decided that love was this, too. 
_____________________________________

“You’re like a clarinet sounds,” he says to her in the
night. 

She looks skeptical in the glow of a single burning
candle. 

“Have you ever dropped acid, Harm?” She asks, but he
refuses to let her break the trance she’s charmed him
into. 

“That’s what I think of when I think of you. You’re
like a clarinet sounds, like a Miles Davis song.” 

If his declaration is a little weird, it’s unfailingly
sweet. She feels tears prick the corners of her eyes,
but she won’t let them fall. 

“You’re quiet and calming. A little bit sad,” he says,
running a fingertip down her temple, tucking a piece
of hair behind her ear. “But beautiful. And different.
I lose myself in you.” 

It was a midnight admission, pillow talk of the
hopelessly fallen. There was a magic in candlelight as
well—she knew she wasn’t likely to get professions
like this often—she looks into his eyes and holds it
with her. 

“Where?” She whispers, the question barely audible. 

He touches a finger gently over her heart. “Here,” he
says, and moves it to her lips. “And here.” She closes
her eyes to that. “Everywhere.” 

Knowing him was like eating an orange, she thinks. You
have to peel away a lot to get to the center of him,
but what you find there is wholly worthwhile. 

Tangy, sweet, and a little bit messy. 

“I know,” she says, “you’re it for me, too.” 
_______________________________________

In flight school he had a poem from Yeats taped to his
bathroom mirror. He used to read it while brushing his
teeth. “I know that I shall meet my fate, Somewhere
among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not
hate, Those that I guard I do not love.” If he still
had the sheet somewhere, he would throw it out. He
stood watch now with his heart alone and he’d met his
fate with two feet planted firmly on the ground. Yeats
probably hadn’t had Service A’s and pumps in mind, but
he could split the difference.
________________________________________

What the Admiral said tomorrow didn’t matter. What did
matter was that they each had dreamed for themselves a
future that was fulfilling and exciting and full of
the things that make life worth living, and now their
reality held the promise of even more. Few are blessed
enough to live life knowing what they have, and fewer
still are satisfied by it. 

Whatever did happen was fated to be, she knew this
intrinsically. But she also knew that her future had
Harm in it, whether that be in a professional capacity
or not. That too, was fate. 

The earth would continue to circle the sun, just as it
always had. The tides would rise with the moon, rain
would fall and storms would rage; time would pass no
slower or faster than since it dawned. Life would
carry on. And so too, would Mac, but now with Harm
beside her. 

She finally realizes that love is an epiphany borne of
paying attention.

It may be the tragedies that stick out—the worst times
are the most vividly remembered—but if you pay
attention, if you shut up and just watch, you’ll see
things you never saw before. You’ll see victory where
you once saw defeat. Control where you once saw only
chaos. 

You’ll see love where you once couldn’t see anything
at all.

All Harm needed was a push. All she needed was him.

THE END 


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The characters may not be mine, but the words are.
Copyright Slippin’ Mickeys, 2003