| Subject: Part 3 |
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TT2
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Date Posted: 22:16:16 07/21/02 Sun
In reply to:
TT2
's message, "Part 2" on 22:11:46 07/21/02 Sun
Pt 3
1547 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA
“Morning, Flyboy,” I greet brightly. I’m determined not to have a repeat of yesterday.
He leans back in his chair and smiles, but it fades into suspicious amusement when he sees the plate I’m carrying.
“What have you got there?”
“A little treat for you,” I reply cheerily, beaming what I hope is a smile to light up his senses.
The amusement is gone and now the suspiciousness is first and foremost in his demeanor. He regards the plate, covered by tinfoil, warily.
“Go ahead, take a look.”
“You take a look. I’ve learned to beware of that which hides under tinfoil.” He leans back and stares at me defiantly.
Arghh. All right. Fine. I whip the foil off and stand back proudly.
“Ta-da!”
He leans forward again and inspects the plate of cookies before him.
“What are they?”
“Cookies!” I exclaim, exasperated. Good grief, Mr. Tofu has to have had at least ONE cookie in his 38 years of existence.
“Wh-what kind of cookies?”
“Oatmeal raisin,” I reply modestly.
“You…baked? For me?” Okay, I do not like the sound of that falling from his lips. “I didn’t even know you knew how to bake,” he murmurs still staring at the cookies.
All right, flyboy, you’re starting to annoy me.
“Of course I can bake!” I snap. “I just…don’t. Not enough time.” He pokes at one with his finger then looks up.
“Have *you* tried one?”
“Er, eh, no. I prefer chocolate chip.” He stares at me incredulously. He doesn’t need to know that this is the first time I’ve ever baked oatmeal raisin cookies, nor does he need to know about the cloud of doubt that hung over me as I prepared them. Anyway, they look like oatmeal cookies. I’m sure they taste like them.
“Go on, taste one,” I encourage.
He gives me a pleading look.
“Taste…one…” I repeat through clenched teeth.
He gives me another look, this one full of despondency, and obediently picks one up. He takes a bite of a couple crumbs and looks up at me.
“Mmm…good.”
“Harm,” I say, then stop. “Nevermind. Just give me the cookies.” I snatch the tinfoil off the desk and reach for the plate. To my surprise he pulls it out of my reach.
He takes a real bite of the cookie, managing to cram about half of it in his mouth. He chews for a moment. He doesn’t look like he’s going to gag anytime soon. In fact, he looks rather surprised that he *isn’t* going to gag anytime soon.
“Mmmm…actually these are sorta good.” He says between chews.
“Really?” Okay, so I’m surprised that he isn’t going to gag anytime soon, too.
He offers me the plate. “Wanna bite?”
Hmm…definitely. I must experience my own handiwork now that it’s clear Harm won’t die from it. “Just a small bite.”
He holds out the other half of his cookie, the one he took a bite from.
“Thanks.”
I take it and cram it into my mouth, trying to shush the voice in my head I haven’t heard since high school that says a variation of “now your lips are touching mine.” I really can’t be that pathetic.
“Mmm…” These really are good. Damn MacKenzie. You should really take up baking.
Harm grabs another one off the plate before he takes the tinfoil from my hand and places it over the cookies. He sets the plate on top of his inbox.
“Thanks, Mac.” He flashes a very nice wide smile that makes my stomach flutter. “Still, I don’t know if that’ll be enough to persuade me.”
He winks. He actually winks at me. I’m not sure whether I’m flattered or infuriated when I realize his insinuations.
“Oh. And what *would* persuade you?”
“Well…”
“Hey Harm,” Sturgis busts in.
ARRRGGHHH.
“So, ready for this weekend?”
I look at Harm questioningly. For a split second, Harm looks almost as annoyed as I feel upon Sturgis’s interruption, but the look is gone, replaced by the smirk he’s been wearing since we found out about his super luck with the Superbowl.
“You bet, buddy.”
“What time do you want to check out of here?”
Harm considers. He knows I’m watching him, too, so he puts on a good show of a furrowed brow and a thoughtful expression. I know the looks. I see them in court all the time. Why he thinks he can fool me…
“Probably about 1530 or 1600 if we can manage it. I want to try to beat rush hour traffic.”
“Agreed.”
“Going somewhere?” I ask, not even trying to be subtle.
“Yeah, Harm and I have a mutual friend from the academy—Jack Keeter—and we’re all going to go skiing in Vermont,” Sturgis answers.
Skiing? Harm? In Vermont?
“Hmm, well tell Commander Keeter he better stay out of trouble because I’m not coming to bail his ass out again. Once was enough.”
I fix a stern glance at Harm. “I’m not bailing yours out either.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harm gives me a mock salute. He looks pleased that I don’t seem to recall Commander Keeter with fond memories. Actually he wasn’t that bad. A little arrogant, but that’s nothing that I haven’t experienced with Harm before. Or any other jet jock. We exchanged some interesting stories about Harm.
One comes to mind, and I can’t resist adding,
“Try to avoid the shrubbery…particularly around pretty girls.” Actually, you can hit the shrubbery, just avoid the pretty girls.
Sturgis bursts out laughing and Harm squirms in his chair.
“Ooh, are those oatmeal raisin cookies?”
“Yeah. Mac made them,” he informs Sturgis.
“Really?” Sturgis looks at me with interest. Harm offers one to Sturgis. He takes a bite, without obvious regard to dying or falling seriously ill—unlike Harm, I note.
“Mmm…you outdid yourself Colonel.” He grins.
“Thank you.” I turn my attention back to Harm. “So, you’ll be gone all weekend?”
He nods. “Be back Sunday night.”
“Oh.” Damn. I was hoping to rent a movie with him, or go jogging with him, or some activity that would keep me foremost in his thoughts for the Big Game. Sturgis stealing him away for the whole weekend with Keeter will no doubt nix that. They’ll probably drink half the nights and flirt with every woman there.
I fix Sturgis with a Look. He grins even wider. We both know what’s going on here.
He’s not going to get my Superbowl seat, no matter how hard he tries to distract Harm. When it comes to distracting Harm, I think I can take care of that better than Sturgis could ever hope to.
Unless Harm meets up with some blonde.
Please, we just got rid of Renee. No more. We have a chance here, the two of us, as long as no one else is clouding the picture. We just have to figure out how to make that chance happen. It’s difficult because I’m still unsure as to what he really wants. His career, family, and how I—us—fit into all that. To be honest, I’m not sure how he—us—fits into all that in my little scheme.
I want the family, and I know he does, too. Harm and I have always wanted a family. I’ve envisioned many times our children, our marriage, even our home. Not that trite white house with the white picket fence, but a two story, mostly brick home with a large family room and fireplace, a two—well three, with Harm’s Vette—car garage and a large backyard so our kids could run.
And how many kids would that be? One? No, not if we can help it. At least two. Maybe three. Two little boys and a girl.
We’re at a good point in our respective careers. But what are we each willing to give up in our careers for “us” to form that family together? We’d have to cut back on the extent we travel. Would we both, or would I as the mother be expected to make those cutbacks. I think Harm would insist on sharing that responsibility.
And what happens if Harm’s assigned sea duty? Or stationed overseas? Or what if I am? Where do we go? Does our family move to wherever Harm’s assigned, or do we move wherever I’m assigned? In that event, someone will have to make a sacrifice. Whose job do we consider most important to follow?
I realize both Harm and Sturgis are staring at me.
“Well,” I say, forcing a smile, “Have fun on your little trip. And enjoy your cookies.”
“I will. I’ll try to catch you later before I leave.”
“Good.” Maybe I can at least give him a little goodbye present. Something to think about while he’s waiting for the ski lift and some little snow bunny is trying to charm him away from me.
Damn if a third party is going to enter in this equation, anyway.
Like Chloe says, “First comes love, THEN comes marriage, THEN comes Harm with a baby carriage.”
One thing at a time MacKenzie.
********
0134 ZULU
Mac’s Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
There’s a knock on my door and I swing it open to find Harm standing uncomfortably on the other side.
“Harm!” I hope I don’t sound as excited to him as I do to my own ears. “Back already?”
“What do you mean ‘already’? It’s 8:30.”
“Is it?” Actually it’s 8:34 and 17 seconds. I motion for him to come in and he does, walking stiffly to the couch. He shrugs painfully out of his jacket and lays it on the arm of the sofa. He stands over the sofa for a moment before dropping down on it with a loud groan.
“Are you okay?” I ask, picking up my empty bottle of Naya. “Want something to drink? To eat?”
“Maybe just a shot of morphine,” he mutters.
I suppress the smile that threatens to surface. “How about some Aleve?”
“Okay.”
I quickly grab two out of the bottle in the kitchen and bring him a glass of water to wash them down with. He moans again when I plop down on the couch beside him.
“I’m getting old,” he says.
“You’re 38,” I reply, wondering where he’s going with this.
“Thanks,” he mutters dryly.
“What? You’re still young.”
He snorts. “I don’t feel young. I hurt everywhere.”
“Well, when was the last time you went skiing?”
He thinks for a moment. “Eleven years ago. Before my crash.”
Now it’s my turn to snort. “And you honestly wonder why you hurt?”
“Well, I didn’t think I was that out of shape. I mean, I beat you in the charity thing.”
“You didn’t beat me, Harm,” I remind him.
“Well, I tied you. Starting back six minutes, that’s got to count for something.”
Unbelievable.
“I thought you were tired of competing with me.”
“I am.”
Right. If that were the case for either one of us we wouldn’t be using this Superbowl contest as a platform for love and war, but the fact is we love to compete against each other. As long as I’m beating Harm, and vice versa. It’s one of the things that makes both our worlds go round. We should both just accept that.
He leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table and moans again.
“Here, turn around. Let me knead out the knots in your muscles. You’ll feel better. Go on,” I make a motion with my hand indicating he should turn. He does, with aggravated slowness.
I start kneading his stiff muscles between my fingers, and he moans every once in a while when I hit a particularly tense of sore spot. Finally, after about 43 minutes and 38 seconds, I seem to have gotten all the kinks out. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him and pull him back against me, nuzzling my lips against his neck and ear.
“Better?” I murmur, breathing in the masculine scent of him. It’s not Brut. It’s something different. Not bad, but not…him.
“Much,” he returns. He leans into my embrace for a long while. Long enough for me to realize what I’m doing. I place another couple of kisses against his ear and cheek and sigh.
“It’s getting late. You’d better get going.”
“Yeah,” he agrees after a moment, but he makes no move to pull away, and I don’t release him from my grasp.
Finally, he does pull away, enough so that he can turn his head and plant a nice kiss on my cheek, and my arms fall away.
“Thanks, Mac,” he whispers. I nod and stand up and hand him his coat.
“See you at work tomorrow, Flyboy.” I’m wringing my hands and I hope he doesn’t notice my nervousness.
“Night, Mac.”
“Goodnight.”
“Harm stares at me with the look of intensity that is so inherent in everything he desires and I find myself hoping he’ll stay, hoping he’ll sweep me up in his arms and do everything I’ve dreamed about him doing—or at least kissing me until I forget my own name. Even as I’m telling myself I’m crazy, his hand comes up to cup my cheek. Almost of its own volition, my own hand encircles his wrist and holds it, and I revel in his palm against my skin. His thumb sweeps over the skin below my eyes before he pulls his hand away.
“Sweet dreams, Ninja-girl.”
Oh, they’ll be good ones tonight.
*********
1614 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA
“Wow, Sturgis, these are great!” The sound, but more likely the words, brings Mac shuffling in here. Even though I know her visit has more to do with her competition with Sturgis for the non-existent football seats (which reminds me, I really need to get around to confessing that), I am glad to see her. I look forward to her smile, her laughter, her touch—any kisses she might be willing to bestow—even her scowls and glares (unless she’s really mad at me) more than she knows.
“Take a look at this Mac.” I show her the objects of my admiration. Two tickets to Bob Seger’s concert, four rows back from the stage. She peers at them for a moment, before shooting Sturgis an “I-know-what’s-going-on-here-look.”
“Nice. Where did you come by those?” She asks me—at least I think she’s asking me. She’s looking at me, but it seems the question could be more directed at Sturgis.
It’s Sturgis who answers. “A buddy of mine was assigned TAD in Spain and he gave them to me. I know how much Harm likes Seger, so I thought I’d pass the good fortune onto him.”
“Uh-huh. Just like that, huh?”
Right. I don’t believe that one, either, Sturgis, but thanks anyway.
“Yeah. Harm and I are good friends,” he emphasizes. Mac and him might want to compare notes so that they aren’t just emphasizing the same points in their pleas for seats. “I thought he might appreciate the tickets.”
“What about Congresswoman Latham?” Mac asks, voicing the thoughts in my head. “You could use the tickets as an excuse to take her out.”
“A member of congress?” He asks, clearly skeptical of such an idea. “To a Bob Seger concert?”
“Yeah, sure why not? She’s from Michigan. I’m sure she’s heard of him. Who’s to say if she may like him or not?” Judging by the look on Sturgis’s face, this thought has not occurred to him. It might be a good idea to break the ice, or call a truce, or reestablish communication. “And she’s hardly your typical member of congress.”
“Yeah, Sturgis. This might be the opportunity you need to pursue a relationship with Bobbi,” I add.
Sturgis looks at me strangely and I get the impression that he’s thinking the same thing about my Superbowl tickets and Mac, or maybe it’s just my conscience getting the better of me.
“No, no,” he murmurs, thinking out loud. “There’s actually a little jazz club I’ve been thinking about taking her to. You know, the one on 4th and Washington? It has some nice atmosphere.”
Quiet, cozy, romantic. Yeah it does. Maybe I should take Mac there. I clamp down on that line of thinking. Those thoughts are going to lead to the marine beating I’ll surely receive when Mac finds out the truth about her coveted Superbowl seats.
“Yeah, that is a nice place to take someone on a date,” Mac agrees, and Sturgis and I both break out of our respective thoughts and stare at her.
“What? Dalton took me there a couple of times,” she explains. I look away and Sturgis stares at her for a moment longer before returning to the topic of the Seger tickets.
“Well, I thought you and I might enjoy them. Get away from work and relax. We had a good time in Vermont.”
I laugh and nod. “Maybe this excursion won’t leave bruises all over my body,” I say.
Mac smiles. I think of my visit Sunday, and I smile as well.
Sturgis glances at the two of us and comments, “Doesn’t look like you suffered too much.
“Uh, er, no, the pain went away pretty quickly.”
“I bet,” he snorts, looking at Mac. She smiles innocently.
“Give it up, Commander, you’re never going to win these tickets,” she taunts.
“Well, you’ll notice, Colonel, that all your efforts haven’t solidified you a spot,” he scoffs.
“That’s because I haven’t even begun my efforts,” she says, turning her back to Sturgis and throwing a saucy look at me before she saunters out of my office. That little swing in her hips is back and I can’t stop my eyes from following her figure out into the bullpen.
“Lunch?” she calls, knowing damn well I’m watching her.
“Sure.”
Sturgis makes an odd noise, sort of a combination of a half-amused and half-disgusted sigh, and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask. No way can I say no to that—if that was Bobbi, I doubt he’d refuse, either.
“You’ve got it bad buddy,” is all he offers.
“What? Mac and I—“
“’—are just friends’. ‘We’re in a pretty weird place now.’ ‘There’s all that tension,’” he mimics. “Do you ever convince anyone with that? I don’t think you guys can convince yourselves.”
He’s right, but damn if I’m going to admit it after this weekend.
“Look, it’s—“
“’—complicated,’ I know. I’ve heard it before. I doubt I’m the only one. You ever think you guys make it that way?”
I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off with a wave. “Listen, Harm, let me know if you want to go with me to see Seger.”
“You sure about not taking Bobbi?” I ask, glad to put the topic of Mac and I to rest for the moment.
“Yeah, yeah. I have something else in mind,” he says mysteriously.
“Hmm…well, yeah, I’m definitely interested, Sturg.”
“Okay. We playing basketball tonight?”
“Yeah, I think I got all the kinks worked out from this weekend.”
“Good. If not, it’ll give you another good excuse to have Mac work them out.” He grins wickedly and leaves.
Am I really that obvious?
**********
“Guess what, Flyboy?” I say excitedly before I stop dead in my tracks. Sturgis, the only occupant in Harm’s office, raises an eyebrow.
“Flyboy?” he echoes. “Pet names for each other, and still you deny a relationship.”
“Flyboy is actually a fairly common nickname for an aviator. It’s one of the nicer names I refer to him as. And what ‘pet names’ have you heard him call me?” I demand. A few examples pop into my mind, but I’m pretty sure Sturgis has never heard them. Harm calls me by pet names only slightly more often than he calls me Sarah.
“’My Marine dream.’ Oh, wait, nevermind. I think that was Keeter.”
“You guys talked about me?” Harm talked about me? I’m tempted to ask, but I’d like to think I’m a little more mature than the average grade schooler. Good grief, we’re adults. We don’t need some middleman to get us together.
I hope not, anyway. Then again, it may help where all other attempts have failed.
“I think your name was mentioned briefly. We were talking about women in general.”
“So, how did my name get mentioned,” I ask as casually as possible. Please say Harm brought it up. Please say Harm brought it up.
I’m not fooling Sturgis for a second with my detached interest.
“I think Keeter asked how you were.”
Damn. Didn’t tell Harm tell me that Sunday?
“Oh.”
“What you’re not going to make some comment about being a ‘Marine Dream,’” Harm snickers from the doorway. He strolls in and continues, “Especially Keeter’s. If I called you my marine dream I bet I’d wind up with my six sitting on my shoulders.”
Don’t be so sure, flyboy. You may find yourself pinned in a marine liplock, instead.
“I’m more interested in what you had to say on the subject of me,” I reply honestly.
“It wasn’t much of interest,” he replies, avoiding my eyes.
“Actually,” Sturgis chimes in, “it was quite interesting and I do recall you going on about it for quite some time.” Sturgis squints hard, as though trying to jog his memory. “In fact, didn’t Keeter tell you to ‘shut up already and just’—how did he put it?”
To say I am keenly interested in this topic is an insult so heinous, I’m sure it requires an analogy worthy of its ugliness, but I can’t take my attention away from Harm and Sturgis and what Keeter said to think up an appropriate one. What’s even more gratifying is watching Harm turn about three shades of red before he kicks Sturgis’s chair as he walks by.
“Uh—did you need something Sturgis?” Harm asks, shooting him a menacing glare.
“’Just—well, grab her and—‘“
“Are those files for me?” he asks loudly, trying vainly to snatch them out of Sturgis’s hands. Sturgis, due in part to the desk separating him and his own quick reflexes, evades Harm’s grasp easily.
I’m glad. I want to hear what Keeter said. And watch Harm squirm a bit more.
“’Grab her’ and…?” I prompt. Harm towers over his desk and makes another grab. He misses again.
“Well, maybe I’d better not say,” Sturgis amends. Harm lets out a very audible sigh of relief.
“So,” Sturgis says brightly. “Did we ever figure out who’s getting that extra seat to the Superbowl?”
TBC in Part 4
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