| Subject: Part 4 - Conclusion |
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TT2
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Date Posted: 22:19:38 07/21/02 Sun
In reply to:
TT2
's message, "Part 3" on 22:16:16 07/21/02 Sun
Pt. 4
HARM'S OFFICE (where we last left them)
********
You, if nothing else so I can eject you over the Superbowl dome, I think murderously. However I’m getting rather tired of ejecting from F-14s, not to mention I’d lose my wings, so that’s really not a viable option.
My attention focuses on Mac, who’s burning holes into Sturgis in unabashed curiosity. She’s not going to let this die. She may leave it alone for now, but she’ll catch me—or worse, Sturgis—off guard and weasel it out of one of us.
There’s not really all that much to tell. I mean, it’s not like I professed my undying love and devotion for Mac to Sturgis and Keeter. I guess I did kind of talk about her for while, but I really don’t think it was all that long. I mean, Keeter asked how she was, I just thought he’d appreciate a thorough answer. I think Mac knows me well enough to read between the lines, however.
Sydney, Australia, ferry ride, notwithstanding.
I’d like to think our communication skills have improved somewhat since that whole debacle. I hope our communication skills have improved since then, because I don’t think either of us could handle another fallout from a similar scenario.
No, I’m tired of this dance, too. This is it. Either Mac and I are meant for each other and are going to be together or…or, we aren’t, and that will be the end of it. A painful, unsatisfying end, but an end nonetheless.
“No, Harm’s been keeping us in limbo about it for the past two weeks. Come on, Harm, the Superbowl’s only four days away” Mac conjoles, looking at me with such soft brown eyes.
“You’ll have my decision by Friday,” I say, hoping I can come up with a good explanation for why I led Mac on about those seats. I don’t think “because I was hoping I’d log some serious lip-action time with you, (and thus begin our journey to FantasyWorld)” is going to pacify Mac.
“That’s tomorrow,” Mac says. Great. I have less than 24 hours to save my six from Mac. I should have just told her the truth, but nooo, I had to let my ego and my hormones do the talking, and while thus far I’ve been a far happier man these past two weeks than I think I’ve been in a long time, the future does not hold much promise, at least until Mac cools down and I can worm my way back into her good graces.
“Well,” I say, a nervous laugh slipping past my lips, “you’ll have your answer then.”
“Good.”
“Great.” They reply in unison.
“So, we hitting the court tonight, buddy?”
“How about dinner at my place and we can discuss the Sorenson case?” This is also said simultaneously. Before I can answer, Mac turns to glare at Sturgis. Sturgis shrugs unapologetically.
“Uhh, I think that’s a negative on either.” They both look disappointed. Oh, well. I’ve got to figure out this Superbowl thing, and I have a feeling it’s going to require most of my night.
********
I’m packing up my things for the evening, grabbing the Sorenson file, but I’m not, under any circumstances, discussing it with Mac tonight. I’m not. I tell myself over and over again as I slip into my overcoat and grab my cover.
“What are you doing? Chanting?” her beautiful voice breaks through.
“Huh?”
“You’re bobbing your head up and down like you’re reciting something,” she says, watching me carefully.
“I’m not.”
“Oookay,” she draws out, clearly not buying. “Walk down with you?”
“Sure.” I hold the elevator for her as she quickly grabs her own things and then slips in to stand as close as she can beside me. I’m quickly engulfed by her elegant perfume. I look at her with what I feel is a pained expression as she smiles prettily.
“So, are you going to spend the evening on your decision for the extra seat?”
She knows me so well.
“Yes, counselor, I am.”
“Seems to me like it should be no contest,” she remarks casually, following me to my Lexus.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Well, let me give you another piece to consider,” she replies in a sultry voice as I throw my briefcase onto the passenger seat and turn to face her. She places a hand on either side of my face and pulls my head down to her lips. I can’t say I put up much resistance once I realize her intentions. My lips fuse with hers and within seconds my arms are around her waist, holding her tight against me.
I don’t release her lips until I’m sure the feel and warmth of her mouth is burned into my brain. That doesn’t take long, so I add a few seconds for good measure.
“Just something to think about tonight,” she whispers breathlessly. I’m still trying to catch my own breath, and my good sense, which, if truth be told, went by the wayside a couple of weeks ago.
“That’s not fair, marine,” I pant.
“All’s fair in love and war, Commander.”
She smiles, but it’s a loaded smile, and I think I see a little wistfulness there in her soft brown eyes before she pulls away from me completely. She slides into her ‘Vette and drives off with a small wave.
I wonder which we’re engaging in?
*********
0630 ZULU
Mac’s Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
The pounding in my head has finally permeated my brain to tell me that, in fact, the pounding is coming from the door, not my head. I roll out of bed with a groan, and wrestle with the sheets that tangle around my legs. I manage to pull the covers halfway off the bed before I break away to stumble to the door.
The pounding is incessant. This better damn well be important at…at…what time—oh, 1:30 in the morning?!! And tearing me away from a delicious Harm dream, a dream where we were together…on our honeymoon…
Damn important.
In my sleep-hazed mind I wrench the door open, not only without looking to see who’s on the other side, but without unhooking the chain. In both cases not smart. It springs out of my grasp so quickly I nearly knock myself in the head with it before it snaps back to almost smash my fingers into the doorjamb.
“Dammit!”
“Mac?”
I’m afraid to say my sleep-addled senses do not shed any pride onto the vaulted Marine Corps reflexes. It takes me a moment to conjure up the owner of that voice. The voice I dream of every night.
Of course it’s none other than Harmon Rabb, Jr.
“Harm?” I inquire sleepily.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he confirms. Then he proceeds to ask one of the most asinine questions I’ve heard at this hour. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” I retort, mustering quite a bit of sarcasm into my response for still being medically brain dead. It’s not often that I get a good night’s sleep, but when I do, pity the person that awakens me from it.
“Can I come in?” He asks, subdued.
It’s 1:30 and Harm sounds as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I would be at 10:30. He must’ve never even went to sleep. Something must be up.
“Sure.”
I remember to unhook the chain from the door this time, and I barely pull it open before Harm pushes his way through. He walks straight to the couch, turns around abruptly to face me with hands on hips. His jaw falls open and his eyes bulge slightly out of his head.
It’s then that I recall my nightgown, really a euphemism for a black silk and lace chemise, something I threw on after my bath tonight, and the memory of the kiss in the parking lot. It seemed appropriate at the time. It has a plunging neckline that nicely shows off my ample assets in that area, and a thigh-high slit up the right side, and a low back. Harm’s wearing the look I’ve always dreamed he’d wear if he ever saw me in such attire.
Raw desire, passion, guilt--no doubt for the racy thoughts flying through his head that his eyes betray--and regret, probably for never getting his head out of his six sooner to see exactly what was before him. His marine dream.
Maybe it’s the interruption in sleep, but my brain suddenly takes on a life of it’s own as it enlists the help of my hormones and imagination, my body just the medium in which to execute this endeavor. I swagger up to Harm like there’s nothing I’d rather do more than to shove him on my couch and have my way with him.
Okay, so my brain is in touch with my hypothalamus there.
“Come here, flyboy,” I say in a voice so low I barely recognize it as my own. He stands rooted to the spot in front of my couch, but his eyes are sweeping up and down my figure hungrily. I notice they linger in a couple places longer than others. I crook my finger at him and gesture he should come to me. Come to me.
“Come to me,” I whisper. It doesn’t really matter, I’m already standing before him at this point. I let his eyes rove all over me, let him have his fill of my breasts which he tries desperately not to gape at—perhaps there’s still some vestige of his cherished officer-and-gentleman-persona still nagging at his brain. I find I’m warmed at the thought of my well-bred sailor trying to be a good little flyboy, but I don’t think it will be necessary tonight.
I let his eyes wander for a moment longer and then I cast what inhibitions remain to the wind and fall into his arms.
He’s there to catch me, he always is.
His mouth is hot and demanding and bruising and I press myself further into his crushing liplock. Finally, he is the Harm of my dreams. Passionate, needy, desperate. He can no longer hide from me. With each heated assault against my mouth I become more and more certain that Harmon Rabb, Jr. sees me as more than just Mac, the friend, that this is more than just bodies responding to lust, that this is more than anything either of us has ever experienced.
He won’t be able to pretend like nothing happened tonight. He can’t any longer. I won’t let him. I know all his secrets. Harmon Rabb, Jr. wants me. He needs me.
He fingers are softly running the length of my spine, producing chills with each flourish as they encounter the silk of my gown, before sweeping up to start their trail again. His other hand is wrapped gently but firmly around the nape of my neck and I swear if it wasn’t there I would slink to the floor in a silk and lace heap.
My hands sweep through his jet-black hair, a little stiff from the styling gel he uses, but it feels great nonetheless. He’s wearing Brut again, and I break away from our scorching kiss just so I can finally breathe in the wonderful scent of him. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and press my nose against the juncture of his neck and jaw and breathe deeply. He chuckles softly at my actions.
“It’s Brut,” he whispers. I knew it.
“It’s wonderful,” I say. Heavenly. “It’s you,” I tell him, and he smiles and kisses me again.
This is wonderful, too. Heavenly. I can’t believe I would have rather slept through this. No dream can hold a candle to this.
“Oh, God, why is it I can’t resist you?” He whispers into my hair as he lights a fire from my cheek to my hairline.
If the butterflies in my stomach weren’t fluttering before, that statement sends them flying high.
“Why do you try?” I whisper back, pressing feather kisses onto his temples, his forehead, his nose.
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Because I’m an idiot?” he asks, smiling a little. I grin, but his grin fades and he pulls away.
Wh-what? No. I’m not ready to turn him loose yet.
“Speaking of which,” he begins, turning away from me, before looking back. His hand reaches out to cup my face with one hand. Like last Sunday, my hand encircles his wrist and holds it there as I brace myself for what’s coming.
The Big Confession.
Harmon Rabb, Jr. is finally going to tell me what an idiot he’s been for not realizing sooner that he was—is—in love with me.
It’s been a long time coming.
“I have a confession to make, Sarah.” He pulls his hand away, and walks three steps away, and one step back.
Sarah. Ooooh. Good sign.
“Yes?” I ask, taking a seat on the couch. The slit in my gown exposes plenty of my thigh, enough to distract Harm for a moment. He actually shakes his head out of it, and I hold the two pieces of cloth together in an attempt for some propriety.
He stares at me for 28 seconds, and I’m starting to get nervous. I’m also starting to get the impression I may not like what he has to say.
“I—well, when you guys found—well, maybe I should—hell, I’ll just say it.” Is this about his crash? Perhaps that’s when it finally became clear to him, that he loved me. For me, it was just reaffirmation that I was in love with him.
“Go on,” I encourage.
“There aren’t any Superbowl seats.”
Huh? I stare at him dumbfounded. He rushes on to explain.
“I mean, there are, sort of. I’m flying CAP for the Superbowl.” Where’s my declaration of—huh? I must’ve have fallen asleep again, because none of this is making any sense.
“I thought it would be kind of funny, you know, to see what you guys would do about my alleged seats—“
‘Funny’?
“—So, I let you go on thinking that I had tickets. Except I let it go on too far. I know that. Believe me, Mac. I wasn’t trying to use you—I would never do that.”
So what would you call it?!
“It’s just, you were so sweet, and wonderful, and it was like when we were good friends again, before I left to fly, and I missed that and I loved having our old banter back. And the flirting. And the kissing. That was a nice addition.” He smiles sheepishly, but when I don’t return it, it withers away.
“So,” I state. “You never had any intention of taking me to the Superbowl. At all. Or Sturgis.”
He cringes. “I’ll still take you, Mac. I’d be more than happy to. I just didn’t think you wanted a ride in a Tomcat. Not to mention, you wouldn’t even be able to see the game. You seem pretty keen on it.”
I could give a rat’s ass about the game if missing it meant being with you, my heart screams, but I ignore it. I ignore all the logic that says I knew that this was a game, that I knew I was taking things a little too far, that I knew I was putting my heart on the line when my lips connected with his profile with the excuse it was just for a seat in New Orleans.
I just focus on the fact that once again Harmon Rabb, Jr. hasn’t been completely honest and forthcoming with me. Like that night in Sydney, like that night on the Admiral’s porch, like when he didn’t tell me about his breakup with Renee.
“I’m sorry, Mac.” He says, watching me carefully. My eyes are filling with tears, and I’m not even sure why.
He kneels down before me, and thumbs away one that slipped past my defenses. “This is not how I wanted our relationship to come about,” he continues quietly, still touching my cheek.
I’m tired. So tired.
“It’s late, Harm,” I say wearily, staring dully at his bangs, so I can avoid his penitent eyes.
“Sarah,” he tries again.
“I think you’d better leave now,” I choke out. He doesn’t move, and my eyes break contact with his bangs to look into his green—and yes, penitent—eyes, before I hastily shift their gaze to something on the wall behind him. I can feel his eyes boring into me before he nods dejectedly and stands up. I don’t look at anything but that spot on the wall until I hear the door click shut and his footsteps fade into the distance.
Then I at look at my lap and sigh.
********
1313 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA
“Morning, Mac,” Sturgis says as I enter the break room.
“What’s good about it?” I mutter. I spent the last several hours mulling over the behavior of that infuriating bastard of a partner of mine.
“I didn’t say that it was.” Sturgis takes a sip of his coffee. “Is something wrong?”
“No, why would something be wrong?” I sneer.
“You seem kind of tense.”
“Hmph.”
“Uh-oh,” Sturgis says worriedly.
“What?”
“Did you find out that Harm’s not going to take you to the Superbowl?” He actually sounds upset for me.
“I’ve got news for you Sturgis. Harm’s not going to take either of us to the Superbowl,” I state flatly.
“What?”
“Yeah, those primo seats he has? They’re in the cockpit of an F-14.”
“Cool.” I shoot Sturgis a look that would melt glass. He adopts a more neutral expression. “So?”
“So?”
“You get to see the Superbowl in style, Colonel. Well, relatively speaking. I mean, you won’t get to see the game, but you can listen to it. And Harm taking you up in his plane…”
“Oh, Harm knows very damn well that I get sick to my stomach in his precious Tomcat,” I spit out.
“Really? A marine like you?” Sturgis asks. I shoot him another withering glare and he wisely shuts up.
“He just…he just…” I seethe. I don’t know what he just. “He just must think I’m some sort of pathetic…thgfft…” I can’t even twist my lips around any coherent words or thoughts.
“Oh, I think Harm thinks very highly of you.” Sturgis replies mildly. “He says you’re his RIO.”
“Skates is his RIO.”
“Skates is his RIO in his tomcat, but you’re his RIO in his life.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I think I have just been paid one of the very highest compliments that Harmon Rabb could bestow.
Vicariously, of course.
*********
2306 ZULU
NAS
Pax River
I’m running late as usual, but I slow my steps anyway. Mac’s waiting for me on the tarmac, still dressed in uniform. She’s been avoiding me all day, with exception to a few curt ‘Commander’s uttered here and there.
I stroll up to her, trying desperately to think of something to say without screwing things up even more. That’s a lost cause with me, and I know it. The gift of eloquent prose with Mac is something that is beyond my capabilities as lawyer and human being. Fortunately she speaks first.
“Sturgis told me something interesting today,” she says with little preamble. I’m not sure what to say, and she doesn’t seem to expect a response from me, thankfully.
“He said you told him I was the RIO in your life. You want to tell me what that means.” She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.
Great. So she did manage to weasel some of our Vermont conversation out of Sturgis. Fortunately, I may be able to save our friendship with this, so I hold off on killing Sturgis for a while longer.
“Just that…you are.” Great. Brilliant, Rabb. “Like Skates is right there behind me,” I hurry on, “watching my six, helping me stay in the air, making me a good pilot, a better pilot. She’s essential to a tomcat pilot’s effectiveness. All RIOs are. You…you do the same sort of things. You’re always there behind me, beside me, watching my six, helping me stay sane, making me a better lawyer, a better officer, a better friend. You’re essential to my life…” I trail off. This is a lousy explanation. She’s got tears in her eyes again. I need to say something…something more heartfelt.
“Mac,” I change tactics, “I know none of this makes up for what I did, but, please--“
“Stop.”
I do and stare helplessly at her. My super day and super flight is rapidly super-sucking.
She composes herself after a few minutes, but her hiccups give her away.
“It’s kind of funny,” she says, and even laughs a little. I manage a tiny smile myself. “You’re sort of like the pilot in my life.” She laughs even more now. “Literally, and figuratively,” She qualifies. “We’re quite a pair.”
“We’re a team,” I say. Much like a pilot and RIO, I think. She seems to hear that, and nods.
“We’re more than that.”
I stare at her, trying to decipher the exact meaning behind those words. She looks at me without expression. I risk a glance at my watch. I’m really late now. I look at Mac.
“Go.”
I know she’s still upset with me. I don’t want to leave things like this, but I’m not sure what to say or do that will make things better.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. She looks down and nods. I still can’t make out what she’s feeling. I pick up my bag and walk away.
“Harm?”
I turn around, surprised to find her so close to me already. She must have started following as soon as I turned away. She bites her lip nervously, as though she’s not sure what to say. Then she stands up on tiptoe, places her hands on my shoulders and gives me a kiss on the lips. Not long, deep, and passionate, but a nice lip lock that fits snugly between the confines of “just friends” and “lovers.”
“Good luck flyboy,” she whispers. She places her heels back on the ground. “Enjoy yourself,” she adds, smiling at me, her eyes still a little moist.
I feel a twinge of hope flutter deep in my stomach. “I wish you were going,” I say wistfully.
“So do I,” She agrees.
“You still ca—“
“No. I’d never get to enjoy it, and I sincerely doubt you want to hear me retching and moaning the whole time you’re in the air.”
I hear a discreet cough and glance up. A petty officer taps his watch worriedly. I look at Mac.
“I’m really sorry about all this,” I say again. She shakes her head and gives me another kiss on the lips, this one longer than the first, her fingers on my cheeks before she slides them up into my hair. I drop my bag and sweep her up in my arms. We stay like that for some time before the need for air breaks us apart.
I place an impulsive kiss on her nose. She sighs contentedly. Then she smiles devilishly at me and runs her index finger over my wings.
“You’ll think ‘sorry’ when you get back.” She flashes another evil smile and walks away.
THE END
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