With Flying Colors
A sequel to The Wedding Party

Author: Timer
written 04/06



Part 1: Start Your Engines


Friday, Sept. 8
Outside Harm’s Loft
North of Union Station
1630 (local)

I find a parking space not too far from the entrance to Harm’s building. Good. I’m exhausted and don’t feel like lugging my sea bag, briefcase, laptop and body any further than necessary.

As I approach the elevator I think ‘if this thing is out of order again I’m going to personally permanently disable both it and the owner of this building.’

Fortunately for all of us, it’s working this afternoon.

I let myself into Harm’s loft and simply drop my stuff where I stand (well, I don’t drop my laptop), drinking in the atmosphere of him.

God, I’ve got it so bad there will never be a cure. Not that I think I want one.

Ever since Keeter’s wedding....


Saturday, the prior May 20
Keeter and Heather’s wedding reception
The Plaza Hotel
New York City

“Colonel, do you tango?”

“Oh yes, Commander, I do.”

And what a tango it was. Around the dance floor, up the elevator, down the hallway and into his bed. Man oh man, did that man ever show me how to tango.

Back to the present
Harm’s Loft

Sighing slightly at the memory, I kick my shoes off (when is whoever is in charge of Marine uniform regs gonna realize that forcing women to wear heels is like hobbling them?) and stretch my arms as I wiggle my toes. I’ve been in Quantico on an investigation since Tuesday morning. It’s good to be home.

Yes, I now think of Harm’s loft as home as much as my own apartment. After the last few months, I simply can’t recall why I ever misunderstood him. Why we ever miscommunicated.

My ‘honesty angel’ slaps me upside the head and says, quite emphatically, ‘you are kidding, right?’

Well, OK, maybe it’s just that I’m tired, I’m feeling grimy and I wish Harm was here to join me in the shower. He’s so good at scrubbing my back, washing my hair, making me feel a little nasty and a lot clean all at the same time. But it’s only 1630 and I’ll be lucky if he gets home before 1730 based on what he told me earlier today.

Resigning myself to a solo shower, I trudge into the bedroom, peeling my uniform off as I go. *Sniff*

Gee, I smell like au de aviation fuel. Boy, hate to waste that. I know what kind of reaction that scent will get. But I’m too gamey otherwise, I reason as I get into the shower.

The first time I saw Harm’s loft (God, was it really *that* many years ago?) I thought it odd that he devoted so much space to his shower. Now that I, we, have been using it regularly, I completely understand.

As vanilla, cinnamon and coconut replace aviation fuel as my predominate fragrance, I briefly wonder if I could concoct an AV-scented perfume. Shouldn’t be too hard; just have to make sure to get the distilled water to fuel ratio right so it wouldn’t eat through my skin. Hhmmm, I search my memory banks for Plane Captains on the various carriers we’ve visited. Surely one of them....

Suddenly, I sense someone watching me. Just as suddenly, I’m sure it’s Harm.

Slowly I turn, still letting the water rush down my body.

Yep. There he is, leaning against the wall, devouring me with his eyes as he unbuttons his jacket.

“Hi there. Gonna join me?”

“Don’t know. I was just enjoying the long shot.”

Putting on my best Gloria Swanson, I arch my eyebrows, frame my face with my hands and breathe, “Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
Harm’s in the shower in a flash, giving me the close-up William Holden never could get right.

It’s a good thing we both like old movies, or we’d miscommunicate sometimes. Not that we do that any more.

‘Ouch!’ I hate it when my ‘honesty angel’ hits me in the same place twice in one night.



After dinner that night

Sitting on the couch with our after dinner tea we’re sharing our week’s stories. Mine from Quantico, Harm’s from HQ.

I’m not believing Harm’s. “No, someone did not hack into all the computers’ screen savers.”

“Yes, they really did. Every time they went to sleep you’d get this animated dancing SecNav doing the cancan in a pink tutu. Every computer except the Admiral’s. Took him ‘til after lunch to figure out why people kept bursting out laughing.”

“If they find out who did this, they’re toast.” Great prank, lousy way to end a career.

“Somehow I don’t think the culprit will ever be found. The Admiral laughed so hard he had tears running down his face. I’ve never seen him lose it like that before. When he finally pulled himself together, it was all he could do to ‘order’ Tiner and Bud to wipe it out.”

Harm takes a sip of his tea, leans a little closer to me and confides, “I have it on the best, confidential authority that the Admiral requested a private copy be imported to his home PC.”

My eyes widen with joy. “Well, Harm, sounds like ‘Admiral’s privilege’ to me.”

“My thoughts, exactly. So, how ‘bout we talk to him about some more ‘Admiral’s privilege’?”

Oh, oh. I know where this is going. Right into a nose-dive for our weekend.

Harm’s been lobbying (I won’t say ‘pressing’) for us to ‘go public’.

My term for it is more like ‘coming out of the closet’.

I’m afraid what it will do to our careers and our relationship. We’ve been able to keep it clandestine up ‘til now. Except I’m a little worried that Sturgis has been picking up some of the signals we try to keep under the surface at the office. Well, he is an ex-submariner. And there’s always Harriet. Her radar would put NORAD to shame.
“Are you sure you want to do that? Do you think you’re ready? Do you think we’re ready?”

He moves his arms gently around me and fixes me with his most sincere look. “Yes. I am. I think we are. But if you’re not, I’ll wait.”

How is it that when he places his forehead against mine it has all the weight of an international treaty? No, check that. Much more weight; the clowns that sign those break their promises all the time.

We sit like that for two minutes and 38 seconds.

Then we sigh simultaneously.

Pulling away from me, I see a gleam in Harm’s eyes.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, Mac. Just thought maybe we might turn in for the night.”

Yeah, right, and I could ascribe that gleam to anticipation of carnal pleasures (not a bad idea, it’s been a couple of hours after all), but something about it tells me that’s not the cause.

“Sure. Just as soon as you tell me what’s up.”

“‘Up?’” Damn, can he do innocent. “Nothing’s ‘up’, Mac. Just looking forward to taking you to bed.”

If he thinks he can cover up with that....oh, he went right for the spot. That spot on my neck. The one when he breathes on it, I can’t.

He pulls me tighter into his arms, onto my feet and somehow manages to ooze me into the bedroom (I still haven’t figured out how he gets me from the couch or kitchen counter or front door or bathroom or dining room table or elevator into the bedroom after he’s reduced me to a puddle).


“I do have a surprise for you, Mac. I think you’ll like it a lot. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow morning. OK?”

Yes, yes, anything you want. Damn, if they gave ribbons for sexual skill, Harm would fly more colors than a four-star.