words, or 35 pages (8 ½ x 11 paper)
||Through Season 8
||This was my very first
foray into JAG fanfiction. I'm relatively new to the JAG fandom,
and I do hope to stay a while. That said, there may be errors
herein—formatting, canon, grammatical… I was working without a
beta. (I know.) If you like what you read, please let me know!
All feedback is petted and loved and kept in a cotton-lined
cigar box, complete with lettuce treats and a water dish.
||Mac would like Chicago
for the rest of her days. The windy city blustered fierce, but
it blew love into her life.
When the moon circles the Earth, it pulls with it the ocean.
She used to lie 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
"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 cup from the first pot. If you get here after
eight, the coffee's already weak."
"Better not let Tiner hear 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,
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
"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 born with a full set of teeth," she countered, letting
"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
He smiled victoriously and watched as the sun's last rays panned across
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
"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 and then shook his head.
She nodded silently, unfolded his long pea coat from around herself, and
handed 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
An investigation into the purported death of a seaman taking part in a
rescue exercise on 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 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
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, 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
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 was 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. It 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
"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 wrapped up in four days, and they weren't
scheduled to head back to Washington until tomorrow afternoon.
She was standing outside waiting for Harm, 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
"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
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, and
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
Mac didn't say anything, but she could see how. He was like a magnet to
He reached a hand out after a moment and pointed northeast over the
"Two hundred," he said.
"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. 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,"
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. 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 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, she pulled out an oversized 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
"Mac," he said, seriously, "This conversation... I've been waiting for
She leaned back, looking at him. She was fairly certain any time she'd
brought it up, he pushed back, dropping chaff and 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 legs, 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
"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. At 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.
Wide eyes and dark hair, she reminded him of rich cocoa. He licked his
"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
quickly 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 said.
"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. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
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
The waves lapped 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 glass coke bottle, thick and 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
himself, 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
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
"This is going to break all the rules," he said.
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
At times, she imagined them not as Batman and Robin, but Bruce Wayne and
Dick Grayson, riding the fence of lawlessness right there under
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
He gave a chuff of laughter himself, "Isn't it?"
They laughed for a moment and the tension eased. Mac slipped her arm
"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
"Do you really want to do that?" Mac asked him, knowing he didn't mean
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
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
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
"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 their first real kiss had 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 its first flight.
How lucky was she in a world he inhabited, that she could never be
lost. Her compass, her friend. As reliable as Luna and just as
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
"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. 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.
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
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. His
eyes flitted in both directions making sure they hadn't been seen. He
squeezed her elbow and 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
He was right, and he drove her crazy. He would probably be really good
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.
Harm had been acting pissy and infantile. He was in a bad mood when Mac
wasn't around, and in 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
"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 his agreement.
"Is it 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.
Just then, his phone rang. 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 officers' 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
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-deprecating laugh and gave her a look askance.
"You'll be there," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the
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.