Author’s note: Thanks to redwriter for a wonderfully pointed beta, the story is much more polished for her input.
If anyone would have the courage to point out to Sarah MacKenzie that God had a cruel sense of humor, she’d calmly point to her life, and reply with an emphatic, "No shit."
Of course, the only person who’d have the balls to do so would be her partner, and Harmon Rabb was nowhere near. At least she hoped he wasn’t close by. Because if he were, that would mean he was dead, or dying, too. Overhead, the rubble settled some more and she struggled not to panic. Perhaps the rescuers would get to her in time. She doubted it. That would imply that she had a modicum of luck. And everyone knew that was bullshit.
God, she hated introspection. But if not now, when?
How would Clay react? Would he even care? Did she have a right to expect him to care? Certainly not after their last meeting over two months ago.
"I’m sorry. I just can’t live with your job – the secrecy and duplicity. Every time you leave without telling me, it kills me a little. What will happen when you die? Will I even know? Will they tell me? Will your mother know? How can you stay in a job where they treat their employees like that? How can you do this to us?"
"Damn it, Sarah! Just tell me what you want!"
"Too late." She’d hardened her heart to his look of total desperation. She’d ignored the fact that she was gone as often as he. She’d refused to admit that, as she was so adequately proving now, every time she left, she ran as large a chance of dying as he. At least he’d know how she died. Did it really matter? How would he react? Would he be triumphant? Would he see the irony?
She wondered if he’d go through with the wedding. Harm had shown her the picture in the society section of the Post. It’d shown Clay smiling at some blond. The caption under their picture read, "Socialite to marry State Department official." The girl was young, pretty, and, in Sarah’s humble opinion, vapid. She’d called him immediately. "Didn’t waste any time, did you, Clay?"
"Mac? Sarah!" But she hadn’t let him explain. She’d slammed the phone down in his ear. It’d felt good. It’d felt good to tell Harriet and Coates to not put his calls through. She’d been relieved when Chegwidden sent her and Harm out of the country that same day.
She’d considered sending a gift, but they’d been too busy with the Article 32 investigation. Three weeks later, on the eve of his marriage, she lay dying. Maybe it was a gift of a sort. Or, would Clay always think about her? She almost felt sorry for his bride-to-be. Wasn’t it harder to fight a ghost than a real woman? Maybe she’d come back to haunt all the men in her life.
She wondered how people would react to her death. Who would give the eulogy? The Admiral? She sighed and tried to shift a bit. But whatever was digging into her back dug deeper, and she stopped trying. What did AJ Chegwidden feel about her? Would he appreciate the irony of her death?
After a month of stony silence from the Admiral, she’d finally forced Meredith to explain what’d happened to turn her boss from an excited, exasperating groom to the cold, strictly by-the-book bastard he’d become. Meredith had wept that she hadn’t been sure she was cut out for the pressure of marrying a two-star, whose primary focus seemed to be his job. When Sarah had calmly pointed out that Meredith had left the Admiral alone at Christmas time to pursue her own career path, Meredith had no answer. Sarah had felt somehow vindicated in her own choice to break it off with Clay. "Pompous, MacKenzie, really self-righteous and pompous. Whose job caused who to die first? What the hell difference did it make?"
How would Harm react? Well, that was easiest of all to figure out. Harm would take it the most personally. He’d see it as yet another betrayal, another person leaving him. She’d turned to him after leaving Clay, just like she’d turned to him after Mic left. And just like then, he was involved with another woman, this time a teenager. He was taking his responsibilities toward Mattie very seriously. "Good for you, flyboy," she groaned. "When she grows up and leaves you for college and a boyfriend, maybe you can guilt her out, too." Her whisper stirred the dust around her, and she coughed, which sent a spasm of pain down her back. At least her spine wasn’t broken. She was pretty sure you couldn’t feel anything if your spine was broken. And, Lord, did she feel every bit of concrete and steel that touched her.
Would they even bother to search for survivors? She’d been standing by the window, looking out over the chaos that was Baghdad. Harm had been off questioning some of the Marines involved in the case they were investigating. She’d seen the car pull up and the driver run away. Even as the words, "Car bomb!" left her lips, the explosion rocked the building. She’d been thrown back, and hit a desk. Colonel Dayton had yelled something, but she knew he was dead. If she turned her head, she could just make out see his unseeing eyes. Light was coming from somewhere. Maybe she was closer to the surface than she thought. Why couldn’t she at least lose consciousness?
Bud and Harriet would grieve. Hot tears cleaned a path on her face, and she licked them away, trying hard to get some moisture. God, she was thirsty. "Clay?" she sighed and allowed the guilt to overtake her.
They’d been good together…when they were together. He had the ability to make her laugh. He’d tried hard to ignore her frequent jabs at his job. And although she’d never said anything to him, she did blame him for getting them into the mess in Paraguay. She was pretty sure he knew that, too. So many unresolved issues. But that’d been both their faults. They hadn’t been able to bring themselves to talk about it. He hadn’t seemed to think there were any problems. She’d only seen a replay of what she had with Harm.
She’d meant what she’d said outside the hotel in Paraguay. She wasn’t willing to play at happiness with Harm. He needed to find his own way. She needed to find her way, too.
Twenty-six hours, ten minutes and thirty seconds. They were never going to find her in time. She was dehydrated, and even her sweat and tears had dried up long ago. The smells were beginning to choke her. Now her memories were taking on a decided fantasy aspect. She could count each and every sexual meeting in her life – at least the ones she was sober enough to remember. Dalton had been perfunctory, expecting her to take responsibility for her own pleasure. Mic had been enthusiastic, although not particularly good. Farrow, at least, had taken the time to show her what sex could be like – and, at that point in her life, it’d scared her silly. She’d been happy to escape into her law studies.
She remembered the time in the Admiral’s bedroom. His lips so close to hers; she’d often taken it further in her dreams, although not for a long time. He’d be masterful, like John had been. He’d take his time and bring her to the point of ecstasy. He’d take pride in his skills. She could imagine what his touch would feel like. They’d touched over the years. She knew what his skin felt like to her lips, she’d kissed his cheek the night they saved Josh Pendry. He’d be rough, but gentle. His hands would map her body. He’d toy with her. He’d use her and she’d use him. But guilt would rule out any relationship with her CO. Neither would be comfortable in sneaking around. She was glad they’d never tried.
She tried hard to imagine what sex with Harm would be like. Really like. Not the romanticized daydreams that’d been the bulk of her wet dreams for so long. Not what she hoped he’d be. They’d actually kissed. She’d seen him naked once, on a ship they were stuck on, together, in tight quarters, his cock nestled in the thick, wiry pubic hair. He’d caught her looking and his cock had surged, but he’d quickly turned away. What did that bode? Why hadn’t he wanted to commit to her? Hell, why hadn’t he even made a pass? All he’d ever done was pass judgment on her choices in men. Cruelly, she considered the possibility that he might be so deep in the closet that even he didn’t realize he was gay. No. It was her. He didn’t want her. Hadn’t ever, never would. But he seemed to expect her devotion. Well, now he could live with that guilt, too. "Serves him right."
Not so many men, she realized. But then, there was Clay. She groaned again. But this time, not from pain, but from the memory of their few times together. The first time had been…bad…but triumphant, too. He’d been so apologetic, but she’d assured him that it wasn’t so bad, considering that they weren’t even sure he could perform after the torture. She’d been shocked, and a little repulsed, by his scars. Had he known that, too? She’d tried hard to get used to them. But mostly, she’d dealt by keeping her eyes locked on his – or closed. Was that why he’d never said the words? Did he love her? Did she love him? Why the hell wouldn’t she love him? Even though he’d never said ‘I love you,’ he sure as hell worked at showing her.
After that first disastrous time of embarrassed premature ejaculation, he’d set out to prove just how good a lover he could be. She could still clearly remember the following morning.
She’d awakened to silky caresses against her skin. Soft, barely there, random tracings below, under, around her breasts. Her nipples had hardened without him even touching them. Warm puffs of breath had heralded the approach of his mouth as he’d taken first one, then the other, to suck and nibble for a while, then laved them with his tongue. It’d seemed like hours while he’d slowly made his way to her belly button, which seemed to fascinate him. "Clay?" She whimpered at the memory.
"You’re so soft, my oh, so hard Marine. You smell like heaven." She could still hear him cataloguing each spot that he’d seemed to find delightful. He’d lapped at her clit, but he’d brought her to her first orgasm with his hands. "I want to watch you come for me, Sarah." And Lord, had she come. His thumb had beat an almost instinctual tattoo against her clit, while his fingers had stretched and delved into her sopping core. "So hot. So wild, Sarah. You trust me to do this to you. That means so much. You taste better than wine."
She groaned as her body reacted to the memory. How embarrassing. Would they note that on the autopsy? "The body showed signs of sexual arousal." What a thing to have in a final report. She shuddered as she remembered how he’d crawled back up her body. There’d been worry in his eyes. Worry that he’d fail her again. She’d reached out to him, pulling him onto her. But, she’d taken control then. She’d flipped them over. "My turn, Agent Webb." She’d forced herself to kiss down his torso, and, somewhere along the way, she’d found the courage to recognize his scars for what they were - a testament to his love and devotion. Each scar on his body had been etched into her memory, and had become part of her. "Does this hurt?" she’d demanded, as she’d touched his poor, tortured balls. They had taken the longest to heal.
"No. Oh, no. Sarah."
She could still feel his hands in her hair as she’d gently lifted the heavy sac to her mouth. She’d been proud that her mouth had made him hard. He’d lasted long enough that time for her to mount him and ride him. She’d never expected multiple orgasms and she hadn’t experienced it that morning. But she had later. Their lovemaking had steadily improved, even as her doubts about his love had grown.
"God damn it!" she croaked to the scuttling bug inches from her nose. "Why didn’t he ever tell me?" The bug stopped, peered at her, and demanded, ‘Why didn’t you ever tell him?’ She knew that she should reach out and eat the damned thing. She was a Marine. She knew how to survive. "No. Not enough there to justify the disgust." She heard the morgue technician, ‘Last meal consisted of one barely digested water bug.’ "No thank you."
She thought she heard sounds above her, but she recognized hallucinations when she heard them. She laughed hoarsely at her own joke. God, how many died with her? If Harm were alive, she knew he’d be desperately looking for her. But what about Clay? Would he even know before her memorial service? Would he come? Would he bring his new wife? Would they even bother to find her body, or just bulldoze over the spot and give her an empty grave at Arlington? Would her mother cry? Was her mother even alive? Not that Deanne MacKenzie cared. "Nobody cares."
There. She heard it again. Above her. Shouts? Couldn’t be. They’d been on the fourth floor of a ten-story building. Six stories of rubble. Frankly, she was surprised that it all hadn’t shifted and crushed her. Nope. There was God, with that truly twisted sense of humor again. Let her slowly consider all the mistakes in her life. Hell, maybe she was dead, and this was all the afterlife she was going to get.
"Damn it! I heard her! She’s under there. Or someone is. We have to keep trying!"
"Clay?" Couldn’t be. He was getting married.
"Webb, it’s too dark."
"Not with the arc lights. Damn you, Rabb. Where were YOU when this happened?"
"Don’t take it out on me. Nobody called you here. Why the hell are you here?"
"Shut up."
"Clay!" she hoarsely whispered before she passed out.
The pain was excruciating.
"Careful, damn it."
"Look, Mr. Webb," a voice she didn’t recognize filtered through the pain. "I don’t care who you are, you aren’t helping any longer."
"Webb!" the Admiral’s voice interrupted. "Come away."
Yeah, she was dreaming. Or maybe she was dead. No. Wouldn’t she be able to see them? Wouldn’t she be able to look down on the scene? Where was the damned tunnel with the white light guiding her? Dad? Chris? Dalton? Terrific.
"Sarah! Oh, God. Is she?"
"Webb, come on." Harm sounded tired. But Clay sounded desperate. Why was he here? What would his new wife say? Had he left her at the altar to come here? Sarah felt ridiculously pleased.
"Careful. Lift her carefully. Don’t hurt her further."
"Would someone get him out of here?"
"Come on, Webb." The Admiral sounded insistent now.
"You’re right. We got her out. Take care of her." There. That was her sardonic, in-control spy.
"Going back to your bride, Webb?" «Thank you, Harm for reminding me.»
"You’re a real idiot, you know that, Rabb? I bet you saw that picture and couldn’t wait to tell her. What did you do? Use it to get her into bed?"
"Break it up, you two! Damn it! You Marines, get them out of here! Get some sleep! That’s a Goddamned order!"
The voices swirled around her, and she knew she was losing consciousness again. She struggled to hold on, but finally, she just let go.
When she woke again, it was to the sound of the Admiral’s voice. This time, she could tell he was talking on a phone. "Yes. I understand. No. Stay on it. Just stay out of Webb’s way. Harm, I don’t care. You were wrong, and you know it. No, report to me here, and make sure you bring Webb with you."
"Sir?" Her mouth was chapped and her throat was dry. The rest of her senses were just fuzzy.
"Well. About time you woke up." He leaned over the bed. Gone was the hard-ass SEAL/JAG/MY PRIVATE LIFE IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, CO. He looked so tired. She hadn’t seen him look so worried since the time his daughter was kidnapped.
"What?" She tried to swallow, but there was no moisture there. He reached for something out of her view, and the next thing she knew, cooling ice was melting against her lips.
"A car bomb went off outside the hotel. It took out the front of the building. You’re lucky to be alive."
"How many?" She had to know how many died. Why had she been spared yet again?
"Twenty-three." His hand gripped hers. "Don’t think about that now."
"How bad?"
"Well. Colonel, good to see you’re awake at last." She looked up to see a young lieutenant with physician’s emblems on his collar. "You gave us quite a scare."
"How badly am I hurt?" she croaked. More ice chips to her lips and moisture finally reached her throat.
"Well," the doctor said. "Exposure, dehydration, a sprained ankle and a bruised back. Those are your major injuries. You have deep cuts and abrasions, and a minor infection that we’re treating. All in all, with plenty of bed rest you should be fine in a couple of weeks."
"That’s it?"
"You want more? The bruise on your back scared us, but the X-rays show no internal injuries. You’re a lucky woman, Colonel."
A lucky Marine perhaps. But woman? No, she wasn’t lucky as a woman. She turned her attention back to Chegwidden. "Where are Harm and Clay? Why did Clay come out?"
He studied her seriously. "Did you think he wouldn’t? Webb moved heaven and earth to make sure we didn’t give up. He was on site ten hours after the explosion. He’s a mess. He…and Rabb…moved the rubble with their bare hands."
"Why? He was supposed to get married."
He shook his head. "I honestly thought you knew."
"Knew what?" She struggled to sit up but the drugs made it impossible. She was fighting the urge to fall asleep.
"The photo was a misprint. The picture was of him and his godchild. She’s getting married and the groom-to-be IS a State Department employee. I thought for sure you called him."
"I did," she whispered. "I never let him explain."
"Well, one good thing came out of it."
"What’s that?" Her eyes grew heavy and she must’ve fallen asleep because she really didn’t hear what she thought she heard.
"Sadik saw the picture. He attacked Webb outside his townhouse. Clay’s bodyguards took Sadik and two other terrorists out."
It was dark when she woke again. The light from the hallway cast the room in shadows, but she knew he was there. She could smell him. Whatever he’d done, he was back in uniform, clean, and closed off. She started to say something, but a loud sniff made her pause. He’s crying. He hasn’t cried since Paraguay when the pain was so bad he couldn’t help it.
"Damn you, Sarah." His voice was ragged, and so full of pain she couldn’t bear to hear it. But she had no choice. She couldn’t run away from it. "You never thought about this, did you? You and Rabb are both invincible, aren’t you? You can’t die. Where did you go all those times I tried to call you?"
"All you had to do was call the office. Someone, anyone would’ve told you." She hadn’t meant to speak, wanting to let him think she was still asleep, but the bitter words spilled out.
His only answer was a sigh and the creaking of the chair as he rose. He came into view, and he looked as haggard as he had after Paraguay. He took her hand in his, and she could feel the abuse it’d suffered on her behalf, yet again. "You’re right, of course." He stared at her for such a long time. "AJ told me he explained about the picture. I’m really hurt that you could think such a thing about me. But, not surprised." He dropped her hand. "Good-bye, Sarah." He turned to the door.
"Wait!" She still couldn’t move, in fact, it hurt to try. "Why the hell did you come?"
He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders seemed to slump. "Because I love you. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I do. I told you in Paraguay. I tried to tell you when we got back. I sure as hell tried to show you." His shoulders rose and fell. "You and Rabb will work it out. Be happy, Sarah." And he was gone.
"Clay!" But, if he heard her, he didn’t turn back. Just like Mic. Damn them all!
When she woke next, it was daylight, and the man keeping watch was Harm. "Hey, ninja girl." He was on his feet the moment her eyes opened. "How you feeling?"
"Fine. Ice?"
"Sure." He held her head, and it felt good to be touched by him. "You had us so scared, Mac."
"Sorry." It was an automatic response on her part, and they both grimaced at her acceptance of responsibility for something that wasn’t her fault at all. "I’m sorry to pull you away from Mattie." And she was. There was no bitterness in her heart or voice, and he heard that, too.
"Hey. Coates is there for her. Besides, Mattie’s lived on her own for a long time."
And with a flash of crystal clarity, she understood his need to save Mattie. He was trying to save the girl that Sarah MacKenzie had lost to abuse and booze all those years ago. "Well, I appreciate it, flyboy."
He blushed, and she thought he was going to turn away, but he took a deep breath. "It was Webb who led the charge. I… I… Oh, Mac, you couldn’t imagine what it looked like. There was no way you should’ve lived. But Webb? Damn, the Tin Man can be a stubborn son-of-bitch. He wouldn’t let them stop for a moment. He was pulling off chunks of concrete, even as the bulldozers were working around him. He punched out a Marine twice his size. The Sergeant had dared to suggest that there was no reason to keep looking. You’re the only one we found alive, Mac. And we found you, because of Webb." He took a deep breath. "He really does love you, Mac. We… we talked while we hunted down the people responsible for the bomb. He was crazed." He paused, then cleared his throat. "I’m really sorry about the picture. I should’ve known it was a mistake."
"Why?" She turned her head away. "It wasn’t your fault. I should’ve let him explain." Terrific, her body had hydrated enough for there to be tears.
"Hey. Jarhead. Oh, man, Mac. Please don’t cry."
"He’s gone. I sent him away. You were right."
She sensed the fight within him and, when he spoke, she knew he didn’t really believe it, but at least he said it. "I was wrong. He…Oh, hell, Mac. Who the hell am I to say what’s right or wrong with the men in your life? I’ve no right." And she heard the sincerity there.
"Colonel?" They were both relieved when the doctor came into the room.
"When can I be released?"
"Well, the Admiral is arranging a transport back to the states. You’ll need to spend some time at a rehabilitation facility."
"Can’t I just go home? I thought my injuries weren’t that bad."
"They aren’t. But, you need complete bed rest. The bruising so close to your spine has got to have time heal. That means no getting up to even go to the bathroom without help. It means a rigid regimen of controlled exercise. I want you under the care of a professional for at least a week. I’d keep you here, but you can get better care back home."
Now the tears did fall. She barely heard the gulp before Harm offered, "I can take her in, Doc. I’ve got time coming."
"But I can’t spare you." The Admiral snapped.
"But sir!"
"What the hell are you going to do, Rabb? Resign your commission again?"
Harm gasped at the fury in the Admiral’s voice, but hastily left the room.
The Admiral stalked up to her bed, stared at her long and hard, then sighed. "I’m sorry for that Mac. I…I don’t know why he just rubs me the wrong way."
Even feeling as charitable as she was toward Harm, she had to nod, knowingly. "I understand, sir. But, please. Isn’t there something else I can do?"
He shook his head. "You know how busy we are. Hell, I might have to bring you paperwork while you’re in the hospital. I’ve no idea how we’re going to manage without you. There’s just no way."
She refused to beg further and she refused to let him see her cry. "Very well."