Title: Match Point 
Author:  Pixie

Email:  Pixie1@gmail.com

Rating:  PG

Classification:  Short story Humor/Romance (H/M)

Word Count: 9,000

Disclaimer:  JAG and its characters don't belong to me. They belong to Bellisarius Productions. 

Author's Note:  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. This story began life as an episode reaction piece to "Trojan Horse," and picks up at the end of that episode.

Acknowledgements:  Thanks to Captain for the quick beta. 

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.


*******

I throw things haphazardly into my duffle bag, not really caring about wrinkles. I've got twenty minutes until we're supposed to board the COD for the trip back to shore, and I'm such a mixed up mess I can't even think straight. 

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. 


*********


I step inside, drop my duffle, and close the apartment door, leaning against it with a feeling of satisfaction I haven't had in months. Sarah Mackenzie is off balance. I sensed the tension in her all the way home. Out of curiosity, I'd made it a point to touch her a few times along the way. A flick of imaginary lint off her shoulder, a hand to the small of her back as she climbed aboard the COD, assistance with the stubborn shoulder harness . . . All excuses to see what would happen. 

The results were fascinating. Each and every time I got close to her she jerked away as though she'd been burned. 

I ignored her reaction, of course. Played it like I had no idea anything was amiss. And . . . wonder of wonders, that only seemed to make her even more uneasy. Twice I'd caught her staring at me on the flight home. Each time, her glance skittered off mine when I met her eyes, shifting to stare out a window or focus on some fascinating detail within the aircraft. 

I know she's wondering what I'm going to do next, and that not knowing is probably making her crazy.

Let her wonder.

I've waited eight years for the time to be right for this. I think back to the day we met. "In a rose garden," she'd told her uncle. That wasn't strictly true. Still, it was close enough. I'd felt the spark the first time I looked into her eyes. True, a good part of my feelings that day were wrapped up in the stunning fact that Mac could've been Diane's clone, but underneath that, deep down inside, I'd felt a spark of awareness that was all about Sarah Mackenzie. 

That spark had never died. It had flickered, grown weak, been blown back and forth by the fickle winds of our tangled lives, but it had never gone out. 

Now. Finally. It's time to fan it into flame, and I intend to do just that. 

Many years ago when I'd been a boy scout, my den leader had shown us how to nurture a tiny spark, feeding it little scraps of bark and tiny twigs until it flickered into flame. Gradually, he'd added bigger wood, until finally he'd had a healthy fire with a bed of coals under it that would last for hours.

I want that flame with Mac. I want the color, and the light, and the heat that keeps you warm on a cold night and sears your skin when you get too close. But I also want the bed of coals that lasts forever.

I shake my head at the fanciful thoughts and pick up my duffle, carrying it to my room to empty it out. 

"What's needed now," I say to the empty room as I toss my dirty things in the hamper, "is a plan." 

I finish putting things away and go to the kitchen. Luckily, there's one more beer in the fridge. I pop the cap off the bottle and settle myself on the couch. The long draft of cold liquid floods down my throat, and I go back to thinking about Mac.

Mr. Bryant always said that if you put big sticks on the flame too soon, you'll smother it, and it'll go out. There's no need to jump right into the grand gestures, the fancy night on the town that'd likely leave both of us feeling as awkward and tongue tied as a couple of teenagers. No. What's needed here is a light touch. Tinder. 

I play with ideas for a while, examining and then discarding each of them until I finally settle on one that's guaranteed to have her climbing the walls. I pull the phone book out and flip it open. Within seconds, I've found what I want. I pick up the phone, punch in the numbers, and sit back to wait. 


***************


"Ma'am? There's another delivery for you."

I look up to see Jen standing in the doorway. Just behind her is the by now familiar delivery man with his daily offering. I roll my eyes as I wave him inside.

"That'll be all, Jennifer." 

"Yes, Ma'am." 

She doesn't move. 

"Petty Officer!" 

She jumps like a startled rabbit, dragging her eyes away from the overflowing vase that sits atop my file cabinet.

"Yes, Ma'am. Sorry Ma'am. I'll just be going now . . ." 

She starts to walk away, turns, and comes back, a hopeful gleam in her eye. 

"Would you like me to water those for you, Ma'am?"

"No thank you, Jennifer. I think I can manage."

She picks up the note of sarcasm in my voice and beats a hasty retreat. I turn to Pete. 

"Another one?"

"Yep." 

He grins at me, hands me the single long stemmed rose, makes a note on the ever present clipboard, and turns to go.

"Pete?" I'm amused that I know the man's first name. Goes to show what happens when you see somebody every day.

"Yeah?"

He's obviously not military. I hide a smile.

"I don't suppose you're ready to tell me where these are coming from, are you?"

"Sorry, Ms. Mackenzie. If I did that, I'd probably lose my job."

I sigh. 

"Can you at least tell me if I'll see you again tomorrow?"

"Nope." 

With a wink and a smile, he disappears into the controlled chaos of the bullpen. 

I reach into my desk, haul out the scissors, and snip off the end of the stem in a gesture that has become so automatic that I hardly even notice it. Then I place the gorgeous crimson bloom into the vase and stand back to stare at the collection. 

It had started almost three weeks ago with the mysterious appearance of the tall cut glass vase on my desk. There'd been an unsigned, typewritten note inside. 

"Keep me close by. I may come in handy." 

I'd been puzzled, but it'd been a busy day, so I'd put the vase on top of the filing cabinet and promptly forgotten all about it.

The next day, Pete had shown up for the first time. He'd looked a little annoyed as he'd handed me the rose. 

"Just this?" 

"Just that." He'd marked his clipboard and left. 

I'm still not sure if he was having a bad day, or if he was annoyed that he'd had to suffer through two security checks just to deliver a single rose. Even then, there'd been no vase, no fancy paper or baby's breath, and, most bizarre of all, no card. 

"Mac? You got a minute?"

Startled, I turn toward the doorway. Harm looks from me to the vase and back again, but he doesn't say anything. In fact, his face is completely without expression except for mild interest. I know this because I stare hard at him before I answer.

"What's up?"

"Do you have the file on the Moore case?

I pick it up and hand it to him.

He glances down at the file, clears his throat, and hands it back.

"This is the Michaels case. I need the Moore case."

With a long suffering sigh, I look through the jumble of folders on my desk. When I finally find it, I hand it to him with a look that loudly dares him to say a word. Evidently sensing my less than chatty mood, he makes a timely exit, and I go back to staring at the vase. 

I know what's going on here. He thinks I don't, but I do. 

It had begun with the vase and the daily rose shortly after we'd returned from that Heroin bust. Then I'd started finding other little surprises. One day, I opened my drawer to get out a new box of paperclips, and discovered a king size Snickers bar with a tiny red bow. No note. No card. Just the bow. Lunch that day had been sinfully sweet and sticky. Then I'd had to spend two hours at the gym working it off. 

Another day, I'd gone to the break room to get the leftovers I'd brought for lunch, and discovered a deli bag with my name on it. Inside were a sandwich, a banana, and a bag of chips. Much better than day old egg noodles.

Yesterday I'd found the bath salts. They'd been tucked into the back of my desk drawer next to a tiny rubber duck. I'd laughed out loud when I found it, and Harriet, who'd stopped by to ask me a question about A.J.'s birthday party, had obviously been curious. Luckily, she's been a little distracted lately, so it wasn't too hard to change the subject.

This morning, though. This morning he'd given himself away. Mr. "I'm So Sneaky I'll Never Get Caught" finally made a mistake. 

I'd reached over to grab a law book, my eyes never leaving the deposition I was looking at. I've been in this office for 8 years now. I can find things in my sleep. I plopped the book down on my desk, flipped it open, and found myself staring at the fossilized dinosaur tracks on Red Rock Mesa. It turned out to be a dinosaur book. Well, paleontology, actually. And very few people know about that particular obsession of mine. 

In fact. I can only think of one.

Mr. Harmon Rabb Junior.

I turn my gaze from the roses to the picture of us at A.J.'s christening. I stare at the image, mental wheels turning at high speed. So. This is the way it's going to be, huh? 

Two can play at this game. 


******

I look up in time to catch Mac's eye as she passes my office on her way to court. She gives me a quick smile, but doesn't stop, and in a moment she's gone. I lean back in my chair and stare thoughtfully at the empty doorway. Something tells me she's on to me. She hasn't said anything about it. Not so much as one word. But it's there in the way she acts – in the way she looks at me. I don't think I can explain it, even to myself, but my gut tells me she knows that all those little gifts have been coming from me.

"Earth to Harm . . ."

Sturgis is flapping his hand in front of my face, looking for all the world like he's about to take flight. I shake my head, soggy dog style, and meet his knowing grin.

"What?" I'm defensive, but that only makes him grin even more broadly.

"You were daydreaming again."

"I was not."

"You were." 

He tilts his head to one side and looks at me consideringly. 

"You've been doing a lot of that lately, now that I think about it."

"Sturgis. I'll say this once. Listen carefully, because I'm not going to repeat it." I pause for a beat, making sure I have his undivided attention. "I. Do. Not. Daydream."

He fires his answer at me before the last word fades to silence. "Yes. You do." 

He holds up his hands in a gesture of self defense before I can launch into a tirade. He knows me so well. 

"It's ok, Harm. I don't mind. In fact . . ."

He trails into silence, evidently reconsidering what he'd been about to say. I fold my arms across my chest and stare him down. 

"In fact . . . what?"

"You know what? Nevermind." He stands up, but I'm faster. I'm leaning against the neatly closed door before he can move around his chair.

"In fact what, Sturgis?" I force a creditable amount of stern determination into my voice, and he subsides into his chair with a groan.

"When am I going to learn . . . ?" 

The question is rhetorical. I don't bother with an answer. I also don't move away from the door. 

"Are you going to tell me what you were talking about, or am I going to have to beat it out of you, my friend?"

He knows I'm only half joking, and he sighs in resignation before he speaks.

"I was just going to say that I thought it was  . . ."

Long pause here. I keep quiet. No way am I going to make this any easier for him. He finally speaks again, but the word comes out on a cough, and I almost miss it.

". . . cute."

He's got his back turned to me when he says it because I'm still standing guard, so I can't see his face, but his shoulders are shaking, and something tells me he's laughing.

"Did you just say what I think you said?" I try to make my voice low and dangerous, but I think he must hear the humor underneath the steel, because he throws a grin at me.

"I said exactly what you think I said."

I give up on the guard dog stance and go back to my chair, dropping into it with a resigned sigh.

"That bad, huh?"

He takes pity on me – finally. 

"Only to someone who knows you as well as I do, buddy. No need to panic. Besides, Mac has been laying it on pretty thick this week."

That straightens my spine and brings my head up in a hurry. 

"What are you talking about?

"Come on, Man . . . you haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

Sturgis shakes his head at me with an expression of amused tolerance. 

"Buddy, when it comes to Mac, you are completely clueless, you know that?"

That shot hits a little too close to home.

"Forget about that. What haven't I noticed?"

"She's been flirting with you!"

It's my turn to be amused.

"You're imagining things."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive."

He gives the ceiling a 'why me' look before he speaks again.

"You know what? I've got work to do. You're on your own."

He's out the door before I can stop him, not that I even care to try. Truth is, the sigh of relief that escapes me when he's gone is heartfelt.

Yeah. I've noticed her flirting. It'd be kind of hard not to. 

I think back to the Brumby days, remembering how I used to feel when I'd see her direct one of those doe eyed looks at my nemesis. It used to make my blood boil and my hands clench into fists. Funny thing is, when I catch her looking at me that way, my blood still boils, but the only thing my hands want to do is grab her, pull her close, and never let her go.

It's time to take this a step further, but I don't want to push too hard too soon. The thought crosses my mind that this approach would seem totally illogical to anybody else - after all, I've already waited eight years. Why take things slow now? 

Because she's worth it. That's why. This woman, and the possibility of what we might be able to have together, is worth every moment of time and every ounce of effort it takes to win her over. 

Eight years of friendship, of sparring, of working together and yes, of hurting each other – you can't change that with a few simple words and a roll in the sack. 

I know I could try that route. I could blurt out the fact that I love her, seduce her into bed, and hope for the best, but that wouldn't be right.

No. I want to court her. I want her to know how much I value her as a person and as a woman before I take that next step.

So, where to go from here . . .   I tap my pencil against my legal pad, hardly aware of the motion as I puzzle over my next move. 

Is it time to ask her out on a real date complete with candlelight dinner and dance floor?

No. I don't think it is. Not yet. I'm thinking casual and familiar. After all, as far as I know she's still dating Webb. She certainly hasn't said or done anything to indicate otherwise. That being the case, if I jump to asking her out on a full fledged date it might look like I'm nosing my way onto another man's turf.

She doesn't love him. She told me as much. But she didn't say she was ready to let him go either, and she certainly hasn't given any overt indication that she wants more from me than friendship. For this reason, I need to put my wants on a back burner for a while and take it slow, see where it leads.

So . . . casual it is. 

Just then, Mac walks past on her way back from the courtroom, and I glance at my watch in dismay. Have I really been mooning over her for that long? With a sigh and a rueful shake of the head, I acknowledge that my productivity is nonexistent this afternoon. Oh well. I'll make it up later. For now, I need to catch her before she gets all the way back to her office.

"Mac?" 


*******


The sunshine feels wonderful on my shoulders, and I lean back, locking my ankles beneath the stone bench and tilting my face to the warm rays. What a glorious afternoon. I sneak a peak at Harm out of the corner of my eye and catch him watching me, an unreadable expression on his face. What is that man thinking?

"Having fun?" he asks, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Yes, actually, I am. It's nice to be out of the office for a while." 

He rolls a knot out of his shoulders, stretching his uniform blouse across his chest in the process, and providing me with a thoroughly enjoyable view. When he stands up, summer whites bright in the sunlight, gold wings gleaming, I temporarily forget to breathe. 

"Mac?"

I shake my head sharply, bringing the rest of the world back into focus, and realize he's holding his hand out to help me up. With a sheepish smile, I take it and stand up, fighting down the urge to leap into his arms. Instead, I straighten my uniform and turn to gather the remains of my lunch, thankful for the excuse to look away from him for a minute.

By the time I turn back to him, wrappers safely corralled, I've managed to force my wayward thoughts back onto the straight and narrow. He takes the trash from me and drops it into a nearby garbage trash can. Then we wander in the general direction of the Jefferson Memorial, but our steps are lazy, the mood relaxed. The cherry trees, no longer in bloom, are no less beautiful in their summer green coats, and the leaves rustle gently in the afternoon breeze. 

I cast about for a topic of conversation, settle on one, and look over at him.

"When does Mattie get out of school for the summer?" 

He glances at me, then swings his eyes back to the pathway.

"In a couple of weeks. She's getting ready for finals now."

"Think she'll do ok even though she was out for the first part of the year?"

"Mattie's smart. She'll be fine."

"What's she going to do this summer?"

He's quiet for a few minutes, and I've just about decided he isn't going to answer when he finally speaks.

"She's going to spend the summer with her dad."

I hear the pain in his voice and stop walking. Caught up in his own thoughts, Harm takes a few more steps before he realizes I'm not beside him. Then he turns and comes back to me. I wait until he gets close before I speak. 

"Are you sure they're ready?"

"It's not up to me, Mac."

There's no answer for that. He's right, and we both know it. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

He frames my face with one gentle palm, and the warmth of his touch shoots straight to my heart. 

"You're doing it," he says, the words quiet and sincere.

I tilt my head into his hand, and in a moment of sheer insanity I press my lips against his skin – a gesture I've often contemplated but never before had the courage to try. 

Unaccountably shy, I glance up . . . and find myself snared in the heat of his gaze. Time stops. I feel my center of balance shifting and make a halfhearted attempt to stop myself from leaning toward him. Then I realize that he's leaning too, his head dipping toward mine, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. 

Laughter and chatter interrupt us as a group of school kids and their chaperones approach along the walkway. I pull away, automatically brushing my hands down the sides of my uniform to make sure it's tidy. I realize that while I'm a little embarrassed to have been a source of entertainment for a bunch of adolescents, I'm mostly annoyed. I was so close, so incredibly, unbelievably close, to feeling his lips on mine - only to be thwarted by fate once again. I'm beginning to hate fate.

I fall into step beside him, both of us quiet as we walk down the trail. We pause under a cherry tree and turn to gaze out across the water. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively casual.

"Have you heard from Webb lately?" 

I look at him sharply, but his eyes, when they meet mine, are merely curious. There's tension in him, though. I sense it emanating off of him in waves. It's time to put the specter of Clayton Webb to rest. 

"I haven't spoken to Clay in a couple of weeks."

"Really?" 

"Really."

I watch a family of ducks for a moment before going on.

"We're not seeing each other anymore." 

One of the ducklings chases a water bug, tiny pinfeathers twitching. I smile at the whimsical sight. 

"Are you ok, Mac?" 

I expected him to be pleased at the news, so the concern in his voice throws me slightly off balance, and I glance over at him.

"I'm fine. We weren't right for each other, anyway."

I leave it there, not in the mood to get into long winded explanations on such a beautiful day. He seems content to follow my lead, and doesn't pursue it, but his shoulders relax and he smiles at me.

"Want an ice cream?"

"Sure."

A few minutes later, ice cream sandwiches in hand, we're walking again, only now I'm struggling not to stare at him while he eats, and it crosses my mind to wonder if the person who invented the frozen concoction had the faintest clue how erotic it could be. 

I force my attention back to my own rapidly melting dessert and sweep up a dangerous drip just in time, fully aware that he's watching every move I make, but determined not to show how the knowledge effects me. 

Later, wrappers and napkins discarded in the trash, we walk back toward the parking lot. It's been a lovely break, but duty calls, and we both have overflowing inboxes back at JAG. But there's something I want to say to him before we leave, and I stop one more time, pulling him off the pathway out of the way of the tourists.

"I owe you a thank you."

He quirks an innocent eyebrow at me, and I laugh. 

"The roses are beautiful."

He glances away from me for a heartbeat, and it occurs to me that the great Harmon Rabb Junior is feeling shy. The concept amuses me, so I decide to see what happens if I keep going.

"The candy bar and sack lunch were thoughtful, too."

"It was nothing, Mac." He gives a self-conscious shrug. "I know you've been having a tough time, and I thought I'd try to ease the way a little. That's all."

"Ahh . . .  I see." 

I consider that for a minute.

"I know you thought you were being sneaky, but you gave yourself away."

"Oh? How did I do that?"

I tilt my head to one side, trying to decide if he honestly doesn't know. Apparently, he doesn't. He must think I told my life story to Webb, but he couldn't be further from the truth if he tried. 

"You know," I say, watching a young mother chase her exuberant toddler across an open patch of grass. "I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who know about my fascination with fossils."

"Really?" I hear the curiosity in his voice. I know he's wondering if I discussed it with Clay. 

"Yes."

"I see."

He doesn't pressure me for more, and I turn from watching mother and child, waiting until I have his undivided attention before I go on.

"Less than one hand, actually. In fact, for whatever reason, I can only think of two people who know about it." I pause for a heartbeat. Then . . .   "And one of them is in Leavenworth."

I see him take a deep breath, his chest expanding impressively beneath gold wings and ribbons. I continue talking in a useless attempt to keep my mind off of thoughts of what that chest would feel like beneath my palms. 

It occurs to me then that we'd better get moving or Coates will be sending out a search party. I turn and begin to walk briskly down the path, headed for the parking lot and my Corvette. Harm catches up to me easily, long legs eating up the distance in an easy stride. His hand comes to rest at the small of my back, casual and yet . . . .not. The delightful signals it sends racing through my system push my legs into high gear – not so much in an effort to escape from him, as in a desperate attempt to provide an outlet for a sudden over abundance of nervous energy. 

He doesn't speak again until we're pulling out of the parking lot into the busy afternoon traffic. I know he's thinking hard, and I suspect I know what he's thinking about, but I decide to let him stew, curious to know how long it'll take him to work up the courage to ask.

"Mac?"

"Hmm?"

"Was there . . . anything else?"

"Anything else?" I'm playing dumb here. I know exactly what he's talking about, but it's fun to make him squirm a little.

"Yeah. Did you find anything else?"

"Not that I can think of. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." 

He lapses into silence, and I swallow my laugh. I know. It's cruel of me to tease him like this, but I don't feel too guilty. After all, I'm sure he had a grand time watching me trying to figure out where the flowers came from. Turnabout is fair play, right?

I wait until we arrive back at JAG before letting him off the hook.

"Oh yeah," I say, as though I've only just remembered. "There was one other thing."

"Really?" His voice holds all the eagerness of a five year old on Christmas morning.

"Yeah," I look at him and smile. "I found a delightful bottle of bath salts tucked away in the back of my desk."

"You did, huh?"

"Sure did." I wait to go on, timing my final point carefully. It isn't until I pass him on my way into the building that I speak again, my voice carefully nonchalant. 

"Haven't tried it yet, though. I'm waiting for a special occasion."


**********


I hear the knock on my door and pause in my pacing to take a deep breath. I mustn't seem nervous. Mustn't let him know how much this night means to me. I gather my nerves into a tight bundle and stuff them firmly into a corner of my little toe with strict orders that they stay there for the night. Then I walk calmly to the door, proud of myself when I resist the urge to check the mirror one last time on the way. 

The door swings open easily, but my casual greeting disappears like chimney smoke when I see him. He's wearing a black tux. I've known Harm for eight years now, and never, in all that time, have I seen him in a tuxedo. The effect is stunning. For a moment, I'm convinced my voice has deserted me forever, and I have to swallow a couple of times before I can get it working again. Thankfully, he looks a little star struck himself so I don't think he notices. 

"Hey," I finally choke out, hoping that he doesn't notice the ragged edge to my voice or the way my lower jaw keeps trying to detach itself from my skull.

"Hey yourself." His voice, deep, dusky, and full of forbidden promise, instantly frees my nerves from captivity, and they zoom up my legs, through my wobbly knees, and finally take up fluttering residence in the pit of my stomach. Somehow I suspect they're going to stay there for the rest of the night.

It dawns on me then that we're staring at each other like a couple of love sick teenagers, and I step back from the open door.

"Come on in. I just need to slip on my wrap." 

I don't realize he's behind me until he takes the delicate shawl out of my hands. He lays it across my shoulders, then drops his head to place a light kiss just behind my ear. A shiver ripples through me at the contact, and he turns me around to face him.

"Cold?"

"Just a chill. I'm fine." 

I have to break the tension in the room, have to get out of here before I decide that I couldn't care less what he has planned for the evening. Maybe he senses my feelings, and maybe he's a little off balance himself, because he steps back and drops his hands to his sides.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Sure am."

**********************

Sarah Mackenzie in formal wear is always an incredible sight. Sarah Mackenzie in formal wear for me is downright mind boggling. When she first opened the door in that low cut midnight blue gown, I wanted to sling her over my shoulder and head for the nearest bedroom. Luckily, I managed to control my desire while I helped her with her shawl, but I couldn't resist the urge to taste the soft skin of her neck. It was a mistake. I realized it when I breathed in the distinctive light scent of the bath salts I gave her. I have to get us out of here soon, or risk ruining all my careful plans. 

I realize I'm holding my breath as I guide her out the front door of her apartment building. I want this evening to be perfect, so I'm pulling out all the stops, but now I find myself wondering if I've overdone it. Oh well, it's too late to change things now. 

She stops suddenly, a puzzled look on her face, and I smile to myself. I know she's looking for the Lexus, but it isn't here. Her confusion communicates itself to me through the soft skin at her back and I realize that my hand has taken up residence there without my conscious knowledge or permission. I exert a gentle pressure, turning her in the direction of my next surprise, and I feel the exact moment when she figures it out. Her eyes dart up to mine in stunned surprise.

"Too much?" I'm a little nervous, and I know she hears it in my voice. 

"Harm, it's . . ." She hesitates, and I worry until I see that the look on her face isn't anger, it's pleasure. "Nobody's ever rented a limo just to take me on a date before."

I resist the urge to bring up Webb's name. He has no place in tonight's activities. 

"It's our first real date, Mac. I wanted to do something special." I shrug it off, but my heart swells when she gives me a gentle smile before moving toward the car. I move ahead of her to open the door, then hand her inside with a sigh of relief. One surprise successfully navigated. I try not to think about the ones still ahead.

I climb in beside her and close the door, stretching my legs out in front of me with a pleased sigh. One of my favorite things about limousines is the leg room. The car slips smoothly into traffic and I'm glad that I showed the driver where we were going before we came over here. It'd ruin everything if he got lost now. Now that we're on our way, I reach into the tiny refrigerator and bring out the chilled bottle of sparkling cider, pleased when I see amused pleasure on her face. 

Without a word, I pour two glasses, stopper the bottle, and return it to the cooler. I hand one of the glasses to her, and touch the edge of my own to it in a subtle toast. 

"To new beginnings," I say quietly. 

She smiles at me, takes a sip, and relaxes into the seat beside me. I try hard not to read too much into the fact that, though there's plenty of room in the car, she's right next to me, our arms and legs brushing against each other with each movement we make.


**********************


We spend the travel time talking quietly about anything and everything, and I find I'm almost disappointed when I feel the big car slide to a gentle stop. Before I can move, I feel Harm's hand on my arm.

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

What kind of a question is that? When have I ever not trusted this man? 

"Of course I do."

"Glad to hear it." His smile is teasing, but before I can ask him what he's up to, I feel something soft slip over my head, and the world disappears. I automatically reach up to pull it away, but he stops me with a gentle touch. 

"I thought you said you trusted me," he says, laughter in his voice.

"Harm," I shake my head, would've rolled my eyes if I could've. "This is silly."

"Humor me." 

I sigh and give in, curious to find out what he's up to now. The blindfold has the altogether fascinating effect of narrowing my experience to one of touch, scent, and sound. Suddenly, I'm excruciatingly aware of his touch on my skin as he guides me out of the car to stand next to him. There's a whispered conversation between him and, I assume, the limo driver. Then doors slam, and the car pulls away. While I wait to see what happens next, I breathe deeply, inhaling the smells of the late spring evening. 

"You ready?"

His deep voice tickles my ear and skips down my spine. 

"I am if you are," I say, delighting in the feel of his arm when it comes around my shoulders.

He guides me forward, his low voice occasionally warning me about a potential hazard, but mostly, we're both quiet. In a few short minutes, we come to a stop and I hear him take a deep breath.

"Wait," he says, and I sense him moving away. I stand quietly, certain he's not going far. Before I can think too much about it, I hear soft music coming from somewhere, and then he's back by my side. 

"O.K., I'm going to take this off now." 

I feel the fabric slip away from my eyes, and open them to a sight I'd only ever seen in the movies. 


**********************


I hold my breath when I release the blindfold, once again worried that she'll think I've completely lost my mind. I watch her look around, taking in the small table set with china and crystal, the sparkling cider chilling in its stand nearby, and, finally, the dozens of blooming rose bushes that surround us. When she finally turns to me, her smile and the bright tears in her eyes make all the hard work worth it.

"How . . . ?"

"I had a little help from Harriet. Her parents know people who know people who . . . " I shrug. "Someone in the chain of acquaintances owns this property. They agreed to let us borrow the garden for a few hours."

"It's beautiful."

"It isn't the White House rose garden, but it'll have to do."

"Harm." She waits until I'm looking at her before she goes on. "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?" I keep my voice low.

She gestures to me, to the table, and to the surroundings.

"Why all this fuss? It's just us. We've known each other for years. I don't need all this."

I look at her standing before me, her hair shining in the glow of the garden torches, and I'm momentarily amazed that I should have to explain this to her.

"It isn't 'just us' Mac. Not anymore. We finally have a chance to explore a new possibility, and I want to do it right."

"But Harm . . ."

I stop her with a gentle finger to her lips. The move is impulsive on my part, but when I see her eyes widen slightly I know she feels the same electricity that I do. I drop my hand back to my side and swallow hard before I speak.

"Let me do this, Mac. Let me show you what I've never been able to tell you."

I can't believe I had the nerve to phrase it exactly like that, but the words are out now, hovering between us like so many delicate fireflies. For several seconds, she doesn't say anything, then she gives me a warm smile and I release a sigh of relief. 

"What's for dinner?" she asks. 


**********************


I can't believe the trouble Harm has gone to for this night. All he'd told me beforehand was that it would be a formal evening. I thought maybe the symphony or a play. I never would've guessed this. I take a sip of water and my eyes meet his across the table. We've been laughing about something that happened in court, and his eyes are still sparkling with humor. The sight warms my heart and makes me tingle through and through. I've missed this. The back and forth banter that used to be so much a part of our relationship has been missing this year. We're starting to get it back now that we finally seem to be back on the same wavelength about our relationship, and I'm grateful to have it back at the same time I'm sad that we ever lost it.

"Mac?" His voice, tinged with concern, brings me back to the present. "What are you thinking about?"

"I was just thinking how we used to be able to talk like this all the time. I missed that this year." 

He reaches across the table and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb absently back and forth across my knuckles. 

"I missed it, too." He looks up at me, meets my eyes for a second, and then looks back down at our joined hands. "It got pretty rocky there for a while, didn't it."

I can't help laughing at his understatement. "You might say that."

"We survived, though."

"Yeah." I smile at him. "We did."

I wipe my mouth with my napkin, then lay it beside my plate. The meal has been one of the best I've ever tasted. I'll have to ask him where it came from. Not tonight, though. Tonight I just want to treasure the time we have together.

I relax back into my chair and let the music from cleverly hidden speakers wash over me. I'm unaware that I've begun to tap my foot until I see him push his chair out and come to stand beside me. When he holds his hand out in invitation, I raise an eyebrow. He wants to dance? Here?

"You're joking, right?" I ask, somehow already certain that he's completely serious.

"Come on, Mac. It's been ages since we've danced together." He gives me one of those smiles I have such a hard time resisting. "As I recall, you're pretty light on your feet."

How's a girl supposed to resist an invitation like that? I put my hand in his and move into his arms, not even attempting to suppress my sigh of pleasure at the feel of those arms around me.

We move easily together, both of us comfortable with the smooth cadence of the waltz, and I lose myself in the moment, unwilling to even consider that it might ever end. I'm drifting now, floating through the soft evening air in the arms of a handsome man, only vaguely aware of the music that gives rhythm to our steps. 

Several minutes pass before it dawns on me that our movements have slowed and our bodies have drawn closer together until now we're barely moving. My head has found its way to a comfortable resting place on his chest. His arms, one wrapped around my waist, the other cradling my shoulders, envelop me in safety and security. I'm so utterly at peace, so completely happy, that the words that slip out of my mouth go with my blessing.

"Do you know that I love you?"

He pulls back slightly so that he can see my face, and I know that he's checking to make sure he heard me properly. 

"Is that so?" he asks, and I catch the smile that warms his eyes just before he pulls me close again. 

"Yeah," I say, feeling completely unwilling to play games right now. "That's so."

When he speaks again, I feel the words rumble through his chest before I hear them. "I'm glad to hear that." 

We continue to move gently to the music, and several moments pass before I feel him press a light kiss against the top of my head.

"I love you, too, you know." 

It's my turn to pull back, and I look up at him with a half smile of my own. 

"Is that so?" I ask, giving his words back to him.

"Yeah," he answers. 

Then he drops his head and takes my lips in a kiss that flows through my veins like molten lava, bringing every nerve ending tingling to life with its passage. The kiss goes on and on as we take the time to explore pleasures forbidden to us for eight long years. When he at last pulls back so that he can see my face, we're both a little flushed, and we struggle to catch out breath.


**********************


I look down at Mac, taking in her heavy lidded eyes and quickened breathing. The kiss got away from us both, and I know I need to step back; give us each a little room to get ourselves back under control. I can't seem to let her go, though. My arms refuse to release her despite my best efforts. The fact of the matter is, I've waited too long for the right to hold her like this, and I want to treasure every moment, but I don't want to push. The last thing I want is for her to think that this has all been some grand seduction scene. That isn't what it is at all.

"Mac . . ." My voice is husky despite my best efforts.

"Hmm?" Her voice, soft and dreamy, almost makes me swoop in for another kiss, but I slam on the emergency brake and say what needs to be said before I make a mistake that could doom this from the start.

"I think it's time to go."

"Must we?" Her smile is a little wistful, and I return it, feeling exactly the same way.

"We must."

She gestures around us at the remains of our meal. "Shouldn't we clean up first?"

Leave it to Mac, ever the practical one, to think of that.

"It's taken care of."

"Oh." 

I realize by the tinge of disappointment in her voice that she'd been hoping to put off ending the evening for a few more minutes. 

"Come on, Cinderella. It's almost midnight. You don't want to see me turn into a pumpkin, do you?"

That makes her laugh, but she takes the hand I've offered to her and we begin the short trek to the street while she answers me.

"I think you've got your fairy tales a little skewed, Harm."

"Oh well." I shrug. "You got the message, didn't you?"

"Yes. I got the message." She tugs me to a stop and looks up at me, her expression serious. "You'll never be less than a prince in my book though – fairy tale or no fairy tale." 

I stare at her for a minute. Those words were so totally unlike the no nonsense marine I've known for all these years that I'm temporarily speechless.

"Close your mouth, Flyboy. You're liable to end up eating a mosquito or something."

She turns and walks away from me, and I close my mouth with an almost audible snap before moving quickly to catch up to her. 

The limousine is waiting by the curb, exactly according to plan, and I hand her inside before climbing in myself. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and draw her close, pleased when she rests her head on my chest. Neither of us speaks on the way back to her apartment. Words just aren't necessary.

When we arrive, I help her out of the car, then walk her to her door. She unlocks it and looks up at me. 

"Do you want to come in for a while?"

I know that she's offering more than a platonic cup of coffee, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested, but she needs to know something first.

"Mac . . ."

"Yes?" She looks worried now, and I hasten to ease her mind.

"There's nothing I'd like more than to come in there right now, but you and I both know that if I do, it won't stop at a cup of coffee."

"Well . . . yes, that's kind of what I'm hoping." 

When she says that, my noble instincts make a mad scramble for the nearest exit and I have to drag them back quickly before they make their escape.

"I didn't do this, tonight, as some kind of elaborate seduction scene. You know that, don't you?"

Her expression clears when she realizes why I'm hesitating.

"Harm . . . I'm not inviting you in because of gratitude."

"No?" 

"No." She meets my eyes, and when she goes on, I can hear the certainty in her voice. "I'm inviting you in because I want to."

I swallow hard. The invitation she's extending to me is unmistakable, and the smile on her face tells me that she knows I won't be able to turn it down. When she reaches up and pulls me in for a kiss, I release my last frail grip on gentlemanly honor. She pulls back, takes my hand, and leads my unresisting self inside. While she closes the door, I flip open my cell phone long enough to send the limo away, practicalities handled, we move into each other's arms, home at last. 

Game

Set

Match