Title-Warm Fuzzies (1/1)

Author-manette

Rating-PG

AN—very short Harm/Mac vignette that I wrote while I should have been packing-

“Hey, do you mind if I sit over here with you while I shave my sweater? It’s too quiet in my room.”

She showed up at my door around eight carrying the old, black, ratty cardigan that I had given her at least five Christmases ago. We’d spent the week out of town on an investigation and had stopped at a small hotel to spend the night on our way back to DC.

She pushed her way inside, knowing I wouldn’t say no.

“Come on in, Mac. I was just going to see if you knew a three letter word for ‘sorrel’.” I was working on a cross word puzzle to kill time.

“Oca,” she rattled off without hesitation. We both spent too much time doing crossword puzzles.

I thanked her, smiled and closed the door as she made herself at home on one of the beds. She spread her sweater out flat and started attacking it with an electric razor that had come with the promise to make any sweater look as good as new, but there was no hope for this one. It was black and faded, it had small holes in the sleeves, and it was covered in little furry pills. Lately she had made it a personal mission to de-pill the thing. As hobbies go it was an odd one. While others might take up knitting or learn to crochet, she was trying to see how much material she could actually remove from the garment before the whole thing fell apart.

It had become a bit of a ritual while we’d been on this latest case. We would eat, say good night if we weren’t working, and retire to our separate rooms, but before long, she would show up at my door—sweater in hand. The only thing that varied each evening was her weapon of choice.

Sometimes she would go at it with a regular razor—studiously scraping away at the offending garment. At other times she seemed to take some personal satisfaction in trying to pick every little ball off by hand. Tonight she’d gone high tech and had brought out the power tools, but no matter what she did, it didn’t make any difference. The stubborn fuzzy creatures seemed to reappear as fast as she removed them. If tonight followed the usual pattern, she would work diligently for awhile, then at some point she would sigh, signaling that she had reached an impasse, and wrap herself up in that old black sweater and fall asleep.

The first time it happened I tried to wake her up so she could go back to her own room, but she snuggled down into the pillows and refused to be roused. I had watched her for a few minutes while she slept, resisting the urge to brush the hair away from her face. Then I found an extra blanket in the closet to throw over her. She murmured something I couldn’t understand, and I retreated to my own bed and tried to forget that she was sleeping only a few feet away.

The next morning should have been awkward, but she seemed matter of fact about not sleeping well since she’d killed Sadik. Having me nearby made her feel safe, she’d said. Good old safe Harm. That was me. But I appreciated the fact that she didn’t feel the need to put on a brave front, and as far as I was concerned she could sleep in my room every night.

But I didn’t tell her that. Instead I told her she snored.

I propped myself up against the headboard of my bed and concentrated on my crossword puzzle. One thing I’d always appreciated about Mac was the way we could be together without the need to talk. Our silences were always comfortable—at least when we weren’t trying not to have a conversation about ‘us’—and that was most of the time. In some ways we were like an old married couple that didn’t have to entertain each other, but took comfort in having the other nearby. There wasn’t another person on the planet that I shared that with, and I was relieved to find that despite the last year, that at least hadn’t changed.

She held up the sweater and was poking a finger through one of the holes in the sleeves when I grinned and offered, “Hey, I’d be glad to buy you a new sweater, Mac.”

The whole idea seemed to irritate her. “Why does everybody think something new is going to be better?” She muttered that under her breath, but then pinned me with a look before adding, “I mean, just because something looks worn out doesn’t mean you just toss it away.”

She directed this at me, so I raised my eyebrows to acknowledge that I was listening.

“Clay offered to buy me a new sweater, too—just like this one, and then he got annoyed when I said I didn’t want a new one.” She seemed to expect some agreement from me that he was being completely unreasonable.

I dug around inside until I could find my fair and impartial persona and said, “I’m sure he was just trying to be thoughtful.”

She snorted and disagreed. “He hates this sweater—and he’s jealous, too.”

I put down my book, and against my better judgment allowed myself to get drawn into a conversation about Webb. “Of a sweater?”

“He’s jealous of anything that connects me to you.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to do with that information.

“I started sleeping in it while you were working for the CIA.” She ducked her head at the admission.

“And now that I’m back?” This conversation was making me restless. It was making me long for things I’d set aside.

She didn’t answer that but said. “He said you were the only consistent relationship I’d had in my entire life, and I didn’t disagree.”

“We’ve been partners a long time.” I tried to keep it impersonal.

“Yeah,” she agreed and started picking at the sweater again.

I went back to my puzzle, and after a few minutes I heard her sigh, and I looked up to watch as she wrapped herself in the sweater and settled down onto the pillows. With her eyes closed she said, “I thought I could replace things, but I can’t.” So quietly I almost didn’t hear, she added, “Especially you.”

I tried to think of a four letter word for ‘withhold from’, and after I penciled in the word ‘deny’ I got off the bed and went to the closet to grab an extra blanket. I spread it over her, tucking it around her sleepy form, and then I picked a few little fuzzies off of her sweater and brushed an errant curl from her cheek.

“Night, Mac,” I whispered.

“Okay,” she agreed nonsensically.

I smiled and walked back to my bed. I pulled back the covers and got underneath turning on my side to watch her. And I fell asleep and dreamed of things that couldn’t be replaced.

The End