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Match Point
Author: Pixie Rating: G Classification: Vignette – Episode Reaction Word Count: 9,000 Disclaimer: JAG and its characters don't belong to me. They belong to Bellisarius Productions. Author's Note: Thanks to Captain for the quick beta. Author's Note 2: The term "Match Point" is used in tennis to refer to a point that either the server or the receiver has to score in order to win the match. Summary: A perfect example of a simple story taking on a life of its own. Part one of this was written as a simple episode reaction piece. The other five followed on a fit of ridiculous whimsy. The entire thing is hopelessly OOC and embarrassingly fluffy. Oh, and did I mention it goes AU pretty quickly as well? Um. Yeah. I won't even begin to try to enumerate the number of "no way, never happen" events buried in here. Download the File:
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What did he mean by that final cryptic comment? What were the exact words again? I puzzle over that for a second, and then it comes to me. "If you love him, it doesn't really matter what I want." He'd had the strangest expression on his face when he said it. The frustration was there. These days, it usually is. But there was something else behind it. Something . . . melancholy and wistful. I duck into the tiny head, collect my few toiletries, and dump them into the duffle in a jumble. Sometimes I wish I could read that man's mind. Every time I think I understand him. Every time I think I know what I want and what he wants, something happens, or somebody says something, and I'm right back in that confused state of uncertainty that makes me feel like I'm lost in a carnival funhouse. Am I in love with Webb? He'd asked me that point blank. Took me completely by surprise. I'm so used to the games we've always played, that when he goes and does something adult and mature, it throws me for a loop. I sigh heavily and drop down to sit on the bed, not really paying attention to the shapeless mass of uniform I'm holding balled against my stomach. So . . . am I? I consider the question with detached logic. I certainly enjoy spending time with Clay. He understands me. Sometimes I think he understands me better than Harm does, even though Harm and I have worked together for so many years. In a tiny corner of my brain, my conscience snorts at me derisively, and I shake my head, jostling the annoying thought into silence. It isn't my fault that Harm and I can't seem to carry on a civil conversation . . . is it? Frustrated again, I begin to pace, forcing myself back to the original question. O.K . . . so Webb understands me. Fine. That speaks volumes about friendship, but what about love? Does Webb make my heart turn somersaults in my chest? Does the sound of his voice cause my spine to tingle? Does he have the ability, with a few well chosen words, to send me flying high as a kite, and then, with another word or two, send me crashing to the ground in a broken heap? No. He doesn't. Webb doesn't have that kind of power over me. He never has. I finally shove the ruined uniform into my bag with a distracted mental grumble of exasperation because now it needs to go to the cleaners when I get home. Just then, another one of those agonizing stabs of fire shoots across my lower back, and I rub it in a futile attempt to dull the pain. I should probably see a doctor, but I hate doctors, and I'd rather not even think about it right now, so instead I turn my thoughts back to the problem at hand. O.K., so it's a good bet that though I do love Webb, I'm probably not "in love" with him. Now what? Suddenly furious, I grab the paperback book that's lying next to my bag on the bed and fling it against the door with all my might, but the dull thud of paper on steel does nothing to calm me, and I resort to pacing the floor again. The nerve of the man! How dare he throw something like this at me in such a public place! He cornered me, caught me off guard and then had the utter nerve to broach a subject we'd both spent months trying to avoid. Why now? Why here? Why . . . Wait . . . what made him ask about Clay? I run it through my head yet again . . . Harm had said that it didn't matter what he wanted if I was in love with Webb. Well, I'm not in love with Webb. So, by extension, what Harm wants does matter. This thought stuns me. I twist and turn it in my mind, trying to decipher its meaning. I repeat the thought, then take it further. What Harm wants does matter . . . But it only matters if I'm not in love with Webb. My head jerks up and I stare at the door. There's only one thing he can't have if I'm in love with Webb. Me. And just that fast, I'm breathless. He still hasn't actually said the words that I so desperately need to hear, but then . . . I've never said them to him, either. Abruptly, the solution comes to me, and I stop in my tracks. Could it really be this easy? O.K . . . .not easy. Terrifying, actually. But at least this would put the ball firmly back in his court, and frankly, I'm not terribly fond of having it on my side of the playing field. I march to the door and yank it open, striding down the corridor to his quarters before my courage can desert me. I bang loudly on the door and almost fall forward when it opens. His hands land on my shoulders to steady me, but I jerk back and straighten my spine, staring him down with every bit of marine belligerence I can muster. "No." The one word, short and steely, sends his eyebrows up. "No?" "That's right." "No . . . what?" Now he looks puzzled and I sigh. The man has an unbelievably short memory. "No. I'm not in love with Webb." I turn then, not waiting for his response, and march back to my room. I'm so set on my mission, so oblivious to everything but my inner turmoil, that I completely miss the slow smile that spreads across his face as I run for cover. I never see him cross his ankles, fold his arms, and lean against the doorjamb, but his quiet words catch up to me and nudge against my eardrums just as I turn the corner. "Let the games begin." I keep walking, ignoring the shiver of electricity that arcs through me at his words. Somehow I know he's talking about a new kind of game – and this time, he's making the rules.
Beauty and the Beast Collection
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