Title: Body Language

Author: lauraloo

Genre: Vignette, Romance
Setting: This takes place during Season 9, Harm’s still in the CIA, before Touchdown.
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Notes: This is an ATW/ATWII reaction piece. Though I don't like to blame Harm or Mac entirely, in my perfect JAG world, I would like to have seen Mac show a little remorse and repentance after ATW and *GASP* actually do something about it.†There are some extremely well written stories out there that explore the Paraguay mess in depth. This isn’t one of them. This is what happens when you just slap a big ole’ steamy shipper band-aid on the whole debacle and call it done.

Is it taking the easy way out? Yep. Is it a quick fix? Yep. Was it a whole lot of fun to write? Yep.†

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Body Language

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It was a place I'd been a hundred times before. But when the elevator door opened, planting me at the end of that dim, dank corridor he called a hallway, even the air around me seemed to make me feel unwelcome. With each step towards his door, anxiety spun itself into a tight bundle in the middle of my belly. I was familiar with every loose plank, every chip in the paint. Every sound, every smell of this place that has always stood, somewhere, in the midst of my sadness.
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Unlike before, I needed a reason for coming here and I had one. It had actually been Coates' doing. Earlier that morning, she'd discovered a couple of coffee mugs he'd left in the break room cabinet. Her first impulse was to come to me. As if he and I were still close. As if we still shared something that might be referred to as friendship. I took them anyway, mustering some semblance of calm, a steady smile plastered upon my face that gave no hint of the torrent surging beneath it.
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But it hadn't stopped there. Word must've spread because as the hours flew by, nearly every officer, every friend stopped by my office with something of his. A book on Maritime Law. A worn Tom Clancy novel. Even a letter opener, a dictionary, a baseball cap. By mid-day, the growing pile had been moved into a cardboard box. By the end of the day, it was nearly filled with these random things, these pieces of him that had rested on desks and bookshelves. They'd been reminders of a time when things just made sense, when him being here made this place noisier and crazier and...and alive.
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The hell I didn't miss him.
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I’d called from home before I came. No answer. I decided to come anyway, telling myself that it would be easier this way. A note would explain and, for some reason, I still had the spare key. With a heavy sigh, I balanced the box on my hip and inserted the key into the lock.

Not two steps inside and I tasted him, blanketed by the remnants of a past that wasn't yet distant but still seemed years away. Unreachable, even. The only thing keeping the memories from totally closing me in was the light. The desk lamp was on, casting a faint copper hue upon the walls. My breathing hastened as I saw the peculiar trail of items beginning with the pieces of mail fanned out upon the entry table. Next to his car keys.
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I looked down, noticing a duffle bag - half-opened, hastily thrown across the floor. Then shoes and socks, even a gray sweatshirt flopped over a living room chair. I shivered as my eyes cut to the couch where he lay sound asleep. God, he was home.
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Even from across the room, I recognized this type of sleep. He hadn't even made it to his bedroom, hadn’t even heard the phone. I could only imagine what had induced this tiredness that surely reached down to the marrow. I would never know for sure, not like before. Now, I’d just never know.
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The closing of the door pierced the silence that had thickened the air like batter. So still, so quiet, I begged my feet to whisper. I set the box down on the dining room table and searched for something to write with. My hand shook as I scribbled the hasty note, my eyes never leaving his body.
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Against my better judgment, which, lately, hadn't been much better than mediocre, I crept towards him, drawn into his space by a force I couldn't explain. No, I would not wake him. I'd just indulge myself one quick look. And then I would leave.

He appeared to be floating, weightless in his resting spot with one arm crooked behind his head, the other draped across his stomach. He was wearing a dark blue tee shirt and faded jeans. His face. The only movement was a slight ripple as puffs of air escaped his lips. His eyes were clamped shut so that his lashes swept the wisp of skin just above his cheekbones. To this day I don't know how or why, but the next thing I knew, I was on my knees next to the couch. And for the first time in months, I began to cry.
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The tears began slowly enough, beading like raindrops under my eyes. But it wasn’t long before my body shook with sobs, yet another thing to add to the list of things I’d been unable to control. The memories now came torrentially, taunting, scolding...shaming. God, how did we let it come to this? How did I let it all slip away? I realized that he'd been wrong - I was the one who had nothing left. And right then and there I felt it like never before - this gaping hole in my heart in the shape of him.

Even though I’ve had my moments of delusion, I’m not blind enough to believe that this was entirely my fault. Not by a long shot. But I had cast the final stone. I had pulled away. I’d been the one to say never. And I'll never forget the way he'd looked at me then, the cruel realization washing over his features that I'd simply lost all faith in him. Once and for all. Now and forever. But somewhere between then and now I realized that what had really happened was that I'd lost faith in myself. And I'd scattered any and all hope that was left into the dusty cracks between cobblestones. I'd been so quick to let it seep into the colors, the music, to abandon it in the heart of that Paraguayan landscape that had been so eager to take my blood.
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With a huff of air, I sucked back the rest of the tears and dried my face with my shirtsleeve. As I knelt, my hands clenched as if in prayer, my body was a jumble of parts. There was the part of me that felt nothing but gratitude. And the part that hated him for what he'd never been able to do or say. Then there was the part that was so stoic and strong, it could walk away from him forever without a second thought. But damn it, as I looked at him, I felt the burning, grinding ache of that particular part of me, the one that has always seemed to overtake the whole of me, that was still in love with this man.

As I unraveled my legs to leave, something pulled me down again. Maybe it was temptation, maybe just something I’d call curiosity. I bit my lip as I considered what I was about to do and decided that I deserved this. I needed this. It would only be for a moment and I'd take care not to wake him. Would I ever get the chance to see him, to be with him like this again? Silent. Unaware. Peaceful. He couldn't fight back or argue. He couldn't protest or resist or complicate things. It would all be for me.
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And so I rose and set myself upon the tiny scrap of sofa next to his chest. I held out my hands over his body, warming them as if near a fire. I bent down low towards his neck, careful to keep my hair from tumbling forward. Holy Lord, the smell of him. I closed my eyes and just savored and inhaled. I moved lower still, my cheek hovering millimeters from his face. I reacquainted myself with these features, these mysterious lines and furrows, so beautiful in their composition.
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I gained more gumption with every passing second, even sweeping my cheek ever so slightly against his. It was hot and smooth and scented with that haunting scent I still smelled sometimes, hanging upon the breeze, swirling around a room, a corridor. Before I knew it I let my lips graze his jaw and then I positioned them just above his mouth. I dabbed a stolen kiss, delicate, featherweight against his lips. He never even stirred so I repeated that same delicious action. Once. Twice.
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It was the third time that did me in.
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Within an instant his eyes shot open in shock as both of his hands gripped tight around my wrists. "What the hell...Mac?" His stare was hot, furious, every inch of him demanding answers.
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In utter horror, I froze. And he still had not let go. "Harm..."
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"What is this?" His voice was ice, his vision cutting sharply across the precarious position of my body...inches away...trembling.
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I managed to pull myself free, holding up the palm of my hand. "Just listen. Just let me..." And then I stopped as it hit me. For the first time in entirely too long of a time I knew exactly what to do. And it had nothing to do with explaining.
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"Spill it."
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"Shh," I whispered, my index finger promptly upon his lips. I kept it firmly in place, letting myself sink down into him, so close to his face, his ragged breath. "No more talking." My hands dug into his shoulders, my hair brushing across his temple as my heart did somersaults. "We already tried that. We've tried it for years and we’ve screwed it up every time."
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"Mac," he protested.
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"Shh...just feel," I pleaded. "Just touch me. Let me touch you. It's the only thing we haven't tried. It's all we have left." He inhaled sharply as I nipped at his jaw, as I slid my lips across his cheek and set them gently, hesitantly upon his mouth.
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After less than a second he pushed me back forcibly, his fingers kneading into my shoulders. Shattered, I twisted my head downward, this last and final hope I'd pieced together, vanished. But with one determined hand he wrenched my jaw up and around, forcing me to look at him. His eyes, his entire face was heated and fierce. But the anger had turned predatory.
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"Damn you," he muttered and before I could even form my next thought I felt his hand clamp around the base of my neck. With an oath he crushed my mouth down upon his with a fury that was blind, with a fervor that was ruthless. He took and tasted with a hunger I'd never even imagined. There was no trace of gentleness as he hauled the whole of my body upon him, roughly, possessively...decadently. If it had been any other man, it was fear I would’ve felt. But, no. Even amidst the hell we’d created lately, these altered personas we’d invented, I knew him to the core.

With reckless thrill, I matched his assault, settling myself against his form, firm and sinuous. We took from each other what we'd never dared take before. And we gave; we gave so completely that our bodies began to do what our words had always failed at. They fought it out, once and for all, debating and reasoning - though this time, not with words, but with lips and hands and kisses. Our minds held no place in this argument as instincts took over, crafting this new language, wild and primitive, and completely effective. This, we understood. This left no room for interpretation, left nothing lost in translation. There was no miscommunication here, no room for running. And not a single need for it.
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We began to come to some understanding as we lost ourselves in each other, in this power that, perhaps, we'd both feared for too many years. There was no hesitation now as our fingers caressed with abandon, starving for skin. In one fluid motion, I lifted the shirt from his body, raking my hands across the smoothness of his chest. He followed in suit, ripping the buttons from my blouse and heaving it God knows where across the room. With a raspy groan, he studied my delicate silk camisole that dipped low with a frill of lace. At first I thought it would become another casualty in this raging war, but he let it be, for the time being, setting his teeth upon the tiny straps that wound around my shoulders.
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Then, eyebrows raised in challenge, he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of my jeans, flipping me around and underneath him in one deft movement. This man simply wanted his turn on top. I began to laugh deviously at the irony of it, but he silenced me with a mouth that was nowhere close to being finished. Our bodies continued in this delicious struggle until it seemed a final truce had been reached. So this was surrender, I thought. I knew it, he knew it. We’d finally made peace with one another.
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And then he began to love me.
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The touches slowed and stilled like water, with no preamble, no explanation. There was warmth and tenderness now and a sweetness from him that I’d always suspected was there. It was all for me now. Our bodies talked and murmured as lovers do as the moonlight wove in between the blinds with its silvery-white glow, drawing lazy patterns across our limbs. Our bodies had said the apologies, the thank yous, even the I love yous for us. And they'd simply done away with the nevers, untangling and righting all that we'd damn nearly destroyed.
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For years I’d been convinced that he’d know just how to touch a woman, just how to make her forget which way was up and down and everything relevant in between. I wondered, then, why he’d felt the need to ask me for an instruction manual when all he’d ever needed to do was get his hands on me. Where were the rules, the regulations here? No, this man knew his way around my skin, comfortably, skillfully, as if he’d always known it. And as far as books went, he made an atlas out of me as his lips traveled over the highways of veins and arteries at the inside of my wrist, winding its way up to my neck. I lost my breath as he buried himself in the valley between my breasts, the rounded hills of my shoulders. He lifted himself up and back, surveying, praising my topography, scaling his hands down the long peninsula of my legs.
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With awe, I considered this towering form above me, wondering how I'd ever managed to live a day without this. The insatiable need arose again and I pulled his face towards mine and took my time with his mouth. Then we finally looked at each other as we contemplated all that had been done. And all that had yet to be fulfilled.
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His eyes brimmed with wonder. "In case you haven't figured it out yet, I love you, Mac. Like something crazy."
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Delighted, I splayed my fingers around his face. "I love you too, Harm."
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The words ran so deep within him that he closed his eyes for a beat. Then he looked at me again with a steady, reverent gaze that made my stomach flutter. “You’re mine now,” he stated firmly.

I’d already felt the delicious possessiveness from him but the words shook me like nothing else. “Always was.”

"Good.” He slid his lips to my earlobe. Somehow, I knew he was smiling. “Extremely, wonderfully, exponentially good. But that's enough talking." He pulled back with one eyebrow cocked and inched the silken straps down my shoulders. "We have a conversation to finish."
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And to that, he received no argument.


THE END