Retiring Solitude

By Lin

Spoilers: Before Pulse Point

Disclaimers: DPBP, et al.

AN:  My reference to actual people is merely decoration and plot device within the landscape of the story. All real life military personnel referred to are held in the highest esteem and are known as exemplary officers, no offense is intended either to them or their families.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chapter Three:  The Heart Finds a Home

“The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing” (Blaise Pascal)

1:35 pm, PST

November 21, 2003

Sarah Mackenzie’s VOQ

Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center (MCAGCC)

Twenty-nine Palms, California

The utilitarian quarters where Sarah Mackenzie paces, while waiting for the connection on her cell phone to complete, is littered with the plethora of notes she’s compiled thus far from the three boxes of files delivered to her quarters earlier that morning. Reports, binders, and folders are scattered into vaguely organized piles across the double bed, the small wooden desk, and even the floor; she’s begun the sorting process in preparation for a thorough examination. Disappointment is apparent in the slope of her back and droop of her shoulders as she sighs heavily, sweeping her eyes to assess the stacks of reports, civilian and military, that she must review before beginning the interviews. The case she’s been sent to investigate is anything but straightforward, and it’s too soon to tell whether there’s concrete or even circumstantial evidence to substantiate the allegations of murder. The only satisfaction she feels today is from the implicit confidence her CO’s illustrated by sending her solo on this investigation. Other than that, she keenly feels disgruntled that the seven days she’s been anticipating spending with Clayton Webb, the first solidifying steps in their budding relationship, won’t be in the near future. She’d known that it wouldn’t be this weekend, but she’d hoped to be home in time for Thanksgiving. Considering the initial scope of what’s laid before her, she’ll be lucky to make it home for the Christmas holidays. And, by then, he might just be on assignment. A sharp ache flares in her heart at the thought.

His barked, “Webb,” in her ear brings a smile to her face, and eases some of the tension around her mouth.

“Can you talk?” she asks, never knowing exactly where he’ll be.

“Sarah,” Webb responds, surprised and delighted that she called. He hadn’t really expected to hear from her so soon. She was, after all, on an investigation. He’d spent the last two days debating how soon he could call her after their talk of the other night. “For you, I’ll make time.”

“That’s so sweet.” A little bubble of happiness begins to swell in her chest, slightly displacing the ache. “Clay, I’m going to be here longer than we originally estimated. The case is more sensitive than the Admiral was led to believe. I’m so sorry. I was hoping…” She breaks off, unable to voice what she was hoping, but Webb hears her underlying distress and hint of uncertainty.

“Yeah. Me, too. It just means we wait a little longer, Sarah; not necessarily a bad thing.” He hears her suck in her breath, and his voice drops to a low, intimate tone, “Don’t go there, Colonel. I’m only referring to my continuing return to health. The more time, the better. I want to have a lot of stamina when we do take those days…” he trails off suggestively, feeling a small tendril of pleasure at her frustration. Her distress underlines that what’s happening between them is real, and that Sarah Mackenzie wants him as much as he wants her. He’s not sure that he quite believes it, yet; he’s wanted her with him for a very long time.

Mac feels an immediate answering response to his seductive tone, and it goes a long way toward alleviating any lingering doubts she might have about them. Beginning to relax into the easy and playful banter that seems to come naturally to them, she teases, “I completely concur, spook. Trust me.”

“I do, Sarah. I trust you, completely.” He’s utterly and completely serious in his assertion, and its underlying import takes her breath, raising goosebumps along her spine.

“Oh, Clay. I can’t tell you what that means to me. I really want to be with you right now to *show* you,” she sighs.

Webb hears the longing in her voice; not only is his want of her as intense, but the sound of her desire does something almost indescribable to his heart. His voice drops to a deep, caressing note, “That’s definitely something to look forward to…”

Despite what he’s just said about trusting her, and their talk the other night, he *had* once before pushed her away. Even though she understands Webb’s need to heal privately, a sliver of insecurity forces its way to the surface of Mac’s thoughts. “But will you be there when I get back? How soon will it be before they send you out in the field?”

“We’ll find the time, Sarah, don’t worry,” Webb furiously gives himself a mental swift kick for having given her reason to doubt the strength of his feelings for her, no matter how necessary. He knows her past history, especially with push-me-pull-you Rabb, and he curses the investigation that has separated them so soon into the exploration of their understanding. “Besides, I won’t be in the field for several months; I’m confined to a desk for a while. But now that I have something to look forward to, I don’t mind at all. I plan on taking full advantage of the ‘down time;’ anticipation is a wonderful appetite stimulant, Sarah.”

Allowing herself to be reassured by his words and tone, Mac ruthlessly chokes off the traitorous rootlet of doubt, and responds only to his suggestiveness, “You do know that I’m always hungry, don’t you?” She asks, dropping her voice to a breathy sigh. “And, Clay, I’m *very* hungry…”

“Sarah! I’m in the office,” he warns playfully, relieved that she’s allowing her momentary doubt to subside, and in an effort to quell his body’s response to the images suddenly flashing through his mind at what they both hunger for.

Her giggled, “All right,” elicits an answering chuckle from him, and he revels in the ease of their verbal play. He does wish that she wasn’t across the continent so that he could also *show* her, even if his body isn’t quite up to it. He groans as he notices the time his desk clock. “As much as I might want to continue this – conversation -- I have a meeting at 5:00.”

“I understand. I have to meet with Colonel Nichols, the Chief of Staff, at 1430, so I have to get going as well. I just wanted to let you know… well, I just wanted to hear your voice.” Her longing is clearly evident, and matches his.

“I miss you, too. Are you reachable later?”

“I have an early dinner with the Colonel and his wife -- I knew them at Quantico -- and I should be back around 2100 when I’ll continue wading through reports. Clay, the sheer volume of paper in this case gives new meaning to the phrase justice by the pound,” she tells him wryly, easing out of the emotionally charged exchange. The number of hours ahead of her before she’ll have read and abstracted the information in the paper jungle surrounding her is a bit staggering.

“If I can, I’ll call to say goodnight, but, if it gets too late, check your email in the morning.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Bye, Clay.”

“Bye, Sarah.”

She disconnects her phone, reassured by his expressed desire and relieved that he understands about the investigation. Few of the men in her life have ever understood how consuming her career can be. Clayton Webb’s different. His career is equally greedy. For a moment Mac’s lost in her reflective thoughts of just how very different a man he is, and that he honestly wants to pursue this budding relationship.

Feeling a renewed sense of promise for their potential success, Mac sits down at the small desk in her quarters. It’s angled in the corner next to the window, which has a spectacular view of the vast expanse of the base, complete with distant purple-hued mountain range in view. The muted sounds of an active training base filter through the glass. Snorting at the ‘luxury’ accommodations, and, with a refocused mind, she reaches for the next report to review before departing to meet with the Chief of Staff and his suspicions about the car accident that took the life of Colonel John Taylor the previous November.

6:30 am, PST

22 November 2003

Sarah Mackenzie’s VOQ

Freshly showered from her early morning run, she’d forgotten how lovely the desert could be in the warmth of November, a sharp contrast to the near freezing temperatures she’d left behind in DC. Her hair’s still damp, and she climbs to sit cross-legged on top of her bed, to resume her review. The stacks of notes are thicker than last night, and Mac’s surrounded by increasingly differentiated piles of read and unread reports, which are additionally separated by either civilian or military origin. She begins to scribble notes on an almost filled legal pad while contemplating the last mechanical report, dated four months previously, relating the results of the military’s findings on the remains of the Colonel’s vehicle. She’s found nothing to substantiate the possibility that the accident was anything other than a tragedy claiming the life of a well-known and respected officer.

Mac pauses in her note taking for a moment to consider Colonel Taylor. His position at MCAGCC was instrumental in the training of the integration and deconfliction efforts among ground reconnaissance assets, and his death a year ago was keenly felt in the aftermath of 9/11 and the current personnel deployment in Afghanistan and Iraq. In a nutshell, Colonel Taylor had developed the combined arms battlespace geometry techniques that allowed joint leadership to safely achieve combined arms effects without hazarding themselves to friendly fire or enemy weapon systems.

Shortly following the Colonel’s death, rumors had surfaced and begun to spread among some of the enlisted trainees. In an effort to staunch the more outrageous innuendoes that Taylor’s death had been an al-Qaeda threat on homeland soil, Colonel Nichols had called in a favor from AJ Chegwidden for a discreet investigation, specifically requesting Colonel Mackenzie because of his high regard for her investigational acumen. Aware of the debilitating effects on morale if the rumors became more widespread or were ignored, AJ had agreed, and sent Mac to determine whether there was evidence to be found.

Tracing the source of the rumors, however, just might prove to be something worth looking into. Sowing discontent deliberately and maliciously is a serious offense. Mac decides that the investigation needs a two-pronged focus: the source of the accident, and the source of the rumors. Whether they are one and the same needs to be determined. Although Mac’s beginning to lean toward the likelihood of a very young, ‘loose lipped’ trainee and a sadly fatal, but accidental, crash.

Deeply immersed in her thoughts, the ring of her cell phone startles Mac into a reflexive tensing, spilling one stack of reports to the floor. Swearing inventively, she climbs off the bed, grabs her cell phone and begins to collect the scattered remains of what had been a neatly organized stack of civilian accident reports. They’re her next task. After she answers the phone.

“Mackenzie,” she answers, slightly breathless.

“I knew you’d be up, weighing the pounds of justice, Colonel,” came the indulgent, amused tones of Clayton Webb.

Mac simply laughs, enjoying his wit, that he remembers her comment from last night, and, even more, for the fact that he’s called her at such an early hour. His eagerness helps to dispel any residual doubt she might feel about pursuing a relationship with him. The early stages of any relationship are tenuous, and theirs certainly hasn’t had the most propitious of beginnings. Although, knowing with utter certainty that someone else is willing to give their life for yours cuts through much of the chaff.

Her relaxed, delighted laughter draws a corresponding response from him, “Remember to get enough sleep. I want you rested at the end of this investigation.”

“Ah, but, Mr. Webb, I’m highly motivated to complete this assignment.”

“Well, I don’t want to hinder your investigation, Colonel. I guess I’ll hang up now…”

“Clay! You’d better not -- you know what Marines are capable of.”

“Threatening a Federal Employee, are you, Colonel?” he teased. He loves teasing her. It was only in Paraguay that he’d had the chance to see this aspect of her personality unfold. It had only served to heighten his fascination with her.

“Oh, spook,” she purrs, “it isn’t a threat, and, if you’re good, I just might tell you what I’m capable of, or what I dreamt about last night.”

It was their lighthearted, innuendo-laced conversation that Mac remembered surfacing occasionally over the years they’d known each other that initially attracted her and left her wanting to know more about him.

“Oh, Marine, I can be very good,” Webb growls, exulting at his physical response to the tone of her voice and the idea that she might have dreamed of them. He thinks it highly regrettable that he’s still in his office. He’d just pulled an all-nighter, reconnecting with two of his Pakistani contacts, and a highly-placed CIA asset in India. “But you need to hold that thought until I’m home to appreciate it. *This* is actually my good night call.”

“You’re still at Langley? Who’s telling who about getting enough rest? I want *you* rested at the end of my investigation.”

“Well, I did fall asleep at my desk, but I had this interesting dream that woke me up, and then I just had to call you.” Unfortunately, Webb’s phone seduction is interrupted by a huge yawn, to which Mac giggles resoundingly, causing an immediate flush to his cheeks, even though she’s thousands of miles away.

“Clay, I think you need to go home and get some sleep. I can wait to hear your dream later, and we can compare whose dream was more ‘stimulating.’ Besides, it’ll be a nice reward for a hard day’s work, and I’ll clean off the bed before we ‘stimulate’ each other.”

“God, Sarah! I have to walk out of here!”

“It’s nice to know I *can* have that effect on you, Deputy Director.”

“Just wait until I can *show* you the effect you have on me, Colonel.”

She sighs, “I am. Waiting, that is. Now, go home and let me get to work. The sooner I get this investigation wrapped up, the sooner I can come home. Clay, I want to come home.”

“Believe me, Sarah, I want you home, too. Oh, damn it. I can’t call you tonight. I have the theatre with my mother. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’m already looking forward to it. Have a good time tonight.”

“Thanks. I’m going to go now. Bye, Sarah.”

“Bye, Clay.”

8:30 am, PST

November 24, 2003

MCOGCC

JAG Annex Conference Room

Gunnery Sergeant Robert Eisley enters the small conference room, which has been assigned to Colonel Sarah Mackenzie for the duration of her investigation. He’s delivering a small, plain paper-wrapped package. It had been delivered in the express pouch from Washington, and such deliveries always take precedence. The Twenty-nine Palms legal personnel had been eager to meet the JAG’s Chief of Staff; Mac’s reputation for excellence had preceded her arrival. The young male officers had been astonished by the dark-haired beauty of the acknowledged by-the-book Colonel, and fell over themselves to accommodate her in any way. The staff JAG, Colonel Marks, snorted in amusement, noticed she was completely unaware of her affect, and ordered his people back to work, offering her any assistance his staff could provide during the course of her investigation.

Gunnery Sergeant Gordon Eisley had won the coin toss to be the bearer of the delivery. It would be thhe first up close and personal contact any of the lower ranks had enjoyed so far. Rumor had it that she’d had dinner with Colonel Nichols on Friday and the CO on Saturday. Eisley was, in truth, a little nervous, intimidated, both by her beauty and by her reputation; however, she merely smiled at him and said thanks for his efficiency in finding her so quickly. His entire week was brightened.

Mac looked at the small plain brown package quizzically. She hadn’t requested anything from DC. Curious, she opened the package, and out fell a toothbrush, accompanied by a folded piece of ivory colored monarch-sized stationery. A smile began to play at the corners of her mouth, and her heart began to beat just a little faster as she picked up the letter to read. It’s very short: “Here’s mine. Can I have yours?” There’s no signature. There didn’t need to be. She knew who’d sent it. Webb had remembered.

For the first time since her return from Paraguay, a memory of the last day at the hacienda didn’t bring pain or anguish. It’s overridden by a happier reminiscence. Images quickly flash through her mind of Clay in the bullet-riddled jeep, confessing to her that he’d used her toothbrush. Her heart contracts almost painfully at the confession he’d made to her. It marked the moment she’d seriously began to consider him as more than a colleague or friend. She’s struggled with the attraction, because of the potential conflicts of their careers and the inherent potential issues they’d bring to any relationship she’d have with the spy. However, she’s worked her way into realizing that, as with many things in life, those things truly exceptional are worth the effort.

Holding the toothbrush as the precious talisman it is, she walks over to the window to gaze out at the distant mountains of Joshua Tree National Park, and, for a brief moment, gives her feelings for Clayton Webb full reign. She’s in love with him. Truly, madly, deeply. As clichéd as it may be. The soul searching she’d begun in her bathtub those short few weeks ago had really been the culmination of much subconscious thought. All leading to this one truth. Sarah Mackenzie’s in love with Clayton Webb. And it feels glorious.

4:30 pm, PST

November 27, 2003

Sarah Mackenzie’s VOQ

Smoothing her hands across the slightly golden flare of the only civilian dress she’s brought with her, Mac is relieved that it no longer hangs from her shoulders as if on a coat hanger. Her appetite has returned and she’s filling out once again to her normal proportions. She finalizes the last touch ups of her make up, completing her preparations for Thanksgiving dinner with the Nichols family. The apple pie she bought, off base, to take with her sits in the bakery’s box on her desk.

Mac fervently hopes to be able to speak with Webb later in the evening. They haven’t really had much time to talk in the past few days, just hurried, heartfelt reassurances that they miss one another. She’s been conducting interviews and cross-referencing information; Webb’s been deeply embroiled in something involving one of his former contacts in India, which is as much information as he could tell her. They both know it’s more than he can reveal to most people. Fortunately, with Mac’s security clearance, Webb can reveal broad strokes information about what he does. Knowing much of the local background in the Middle East, combined with the fact that the US is courting India’s openly acknowledged support for the ‘war on Terror,’ Mac surmises accurately that Webb’s once more solidly within the fold. She’s not quite reconciled to the extremes his career demands, but has a much better understanding after Paraguay. Regrettably, it hasn’t given him much free time in the past few days.

As she dabs perfume on her pulse points, she remembers the last time she’d worn this perfume. It had been when she’d tracked Webb down at Citron with such unexpectedly positive results.

A knock sounds on her door, rousing her from her reverie, and a young Corporal delivers a medium-sized plain, brown package. Thanking him, Mac takes possession of the package, and, unable to contain her curiosity, even though she’s fairly certain it’s from Webb, rips the wrapping with abandon to reveal a compact audio tape player, and another monarch-sized letter: “Thanks for the toothbrush. It still works. Do you miss me yet?”

She can’t resist either the smile that tugs at her lips or punching the ‘play’ button on the recorder. Loud, dissonant, and guttural sounds fill her ears, and she begins to giggle when she realizes its Webb, snoring, on the tape. She’d recognize the sounds anywhere, and had complained enough about his ‘racket’ at the hotel in Ciudad del Este. Smiling happily, Mac departs for dinner, a little more secure in the comfort of his regard.

10:30 pm, PST

December 1, 2003

MCOGCC J

AG Annex Conference Room

With a deep, arching stretch of her arms and spine, Mac stands to go retrieve the printed draft of her findings regarding the cause of Colonel Taylor’s fatal accident. Accident, not murder. The difficulty in this case has been in the separation of rumor from fact. She’s now confident that there’s only rumor surrounding the dreadful event. Within a few days, the source of the rumors should be revealed, and, then, Sarah Mackenzie’s taking the first flight home. Her investigation hadn’t taken quite as long as anticipated when she’d first arrived in California. The only concern wrinkling her otherwise tired brow is whether Webb will be available when she’s completed her assignment; he’s been spending every waking hour and a few sleeping ones at Langley. For a man whose career had been in the toilet the previous year, someone had finally convinced the DCI that Webb wasn’t a resource to be tossed aside like used Christmas wrapping paper. With the hours he was working, they appeared to be making up for lost time.

Mac returns to the conference room, draft in hand for a final review in the morning. She packs her briefcase, and departs for her solitary bed. Despite the long hours she’s been working, she’s more rested than before she arrived. Her insomnia hasn’t troubled her at all, and no longer does her concealer have to be applied in multiple layers to cover the dark circles announcing her sleeplessness.

In her VOQ, which has become less cluttered as her investigation wraps up, she quickly washes her face, brushes her teeth, and changes to a set of Marine boxers and t-shirt. Then she crawls between the layers of cold linen, remembering that California’s desert, while not nearly as cold as DC, does drop into the 30’s at night.

While kicking her legs to make room for her feet and to warm the chilled sheets, Mac settles deeper under the covers. Just before closing her eyes, she punches the ‘play’ button on the tape recorder Webb sent. His snores have become her lullaby.

4:30 pm, PST

December 3

MCOGCC

JAG Annex Conference Room

Once again settled into the conference room that has become her domain, Mac packs the final report relating to the cause of Taylor’s accident back into its box, and she hefts the box on top of the stack in the corner, awaiting their return to the archives. She knows that her own investigation has birthed an additional three boxes of material; however, she’s been meticulously thorough in her search for accuracy, and is confident in her conclusions.

Straightening imaginary wrinkles from the skirt of her uniform, the Colonel heads to the break room for a refill of the surprisingly good coffee – Marine coffee – she thinks, musing about wanting another Marine green uniform to brighten the bullpen of JAG ops, and plans to add Gunnery Sergeant Eisley’s name to her list for the next personnel shuffle. He’d be a good addition to the JAG Ops staff. A side benefit to her travels is becoming familiar with JAG staff in disparate locations.

As if the thought conjured him, Gunnery Sergeant Eisley finds her in the break room. “Ma’am, another package has arrived for you in the afternoon pouch. I put it on the table in the conference room.”

Eisley, like the other local JAG staff, was quite impressed with the frequency of mail and small packages that arrived for the Colonel, considering the short length of her stay. The general surmise was that the packages were personal in nature because the uncontrollable flush on her cheeks tended to give it away. Just as it was now.

“Thank you, Gunny. I’ll see to it.” Topping off her cup, Mac returns to the conference room, wondering what Webb had sent her this time.

True to his word, Eisley had placed the large padded envelope on the conference table. Closing the door behind her, Mac opens it, reaches in to pull out a handful of glossy, folded travel brochures; for Hawaii, Bermuda, Belize, Aruba, Tahiti, Fiji, and Palm Springs. Thinking, ‘Spook, what’ve you done?’ she searches for the accompanying note. When found, it only read: “Where do you want to go for 7 days? Pick one.”

The sound of her delighted, musical laughter can be heard through the closed conference room door, and a passing Corporal grins in pleasure, having garnered just a little more information to add to the growing fount of knowledge about the Marine Colonel the local personnel respects and has grown fond of during the course of her stay. It’s common procedure for the staff to assess any visiting, high ranking JAG officer, and to pool their information; given the nature of the military and fairly frequent reassignments, all intel on possible future CO’s is gathered and shared.

In the conference room, Mac powers up her laptop; opens her internet browser and, after a few minutes, successfully finds the graphic she’s searching for; she attaches it to an email, and hits send. Retrieving her cell phone, she presses #2 on her speed dial and waits for the connection. She feels so differently now than in the first few days after her arrival. Then, she’d been almost overwhelmed with the depth and range of emotions that had been dredged up by months of soul searching, and the satisfying, but not quite consummated, resolution of her confrontation with Webb. However, his almost daily emails, the hurried “I miss you’s”, and the intimate packages, have allayed the unbidden seeds of doubt that would unfurl in her thoughts. She’s now quite confident that Clayton Webb’s as enamored of her as she is of him.

Mac muses about her newfound confidence that the nascent relationship she and Webb are embarking upon will work. It seems to her that, in some respects, their enforced separation and individual workload has illustrated in a very concrete manner their ability to withstand the test of their day-to-day lives. They’d both been very busy, and still managed to make time to keep in touch.

His crisp and quiet “Webb,” makes it obvious that he’s in a meeting. A small thrill shoots through her that he answered the phone in spite of the meeting, even knowing that it was she who was calling.

“I know you can’t talk. Check your email for the answer. I miss you. Bye.” And she disconnects, wondering just exactly what his response will be to the fact that she’d sent him a picture of a four- poster bed as her preferred destination.

9:25 pm, PST

December 10, 2003

Sarah Mackenzie’s VOQ

Mac’s current level of frustration’s in sharp contrast to the exultation she’d felt earlier in the day when she’d given her final report relating to the instigator of the rumors surrounding Colonel Taylor’s death. The very young Corporal Gonzaga, who’d thoughtlessly made a grim joke about how helpful the Colonel’s death was to al- Qaeda and the Hussein regime, had never anticipated the fervor with which it had become rumor, and spread like the recent California wildfires. Mac had recommended disciplinary action, and Colonel Marks was handling the matter.

The situation with Corporal Gonzaga has nothing to do with her immediate unhappiness, which she struggles, in vain, to keep out of her voice as she talks into her cell phone. “The CTO can’t get me on a flight until Friday afternoon. Clay, I’m done here, but everyone who can is flying out, and my investigation wasn’t complete until this morning. This is silly, I’m being silly. I know I can pull rank, but most of these Marines have recently rotated back from Iraq and haven’t seen their families in months. I know that once I’m home, we’ll have time. I’m just being selfish. I want to see you, Clay. I’m sorry I’m whining. I hate that.”

“Take a breath, Sarah. It’s ok. I miss you just as much. If it’s any consolation, I couldn’t have taken the time before now, anyway. I was too involved in putting some things into place.”

Webb exults in satisfaction that she’s as eager to see him, as he is her. Despite her assertion, in front of his mother, no less, that she was falling in love with him, these three weeks have shown him the truth of her pronouncement. He’s fervently relieved that it’s true, as he’s known the truth of his own feelings for her for quite some time.

He glances through the glass paneling of his office, ascertaining that there’s no one within listening distance. He’s already caused enough stir with the new wallpaper on his monitor. Not that they weren’t moving in this direction, but Mac’s response to the travel brochures had been a surprise. He’d actually gasped when he opened the email, and was very glad to have waited until he was at home to do so. But he couldn’t resist the vivid reminder, and his PC at Langley now sports wallpaper of the four-poster image Mac had sent as her choice of destination for their seven days together. It was as open a declaration as he could’ve wished.

Webb’s voice deepens to smoldering intent, “Besides, Sarah, I don’t want any interruptions in our time together.”

Her sigh is loud and cleansing, and, when she next speaks, it’s in her more normal tone of voice. “I don’t, either. It’s just that now that I don’t have to be here, each minute seems like 10 – and I track time rather well. I know it’s only two days, but waiting until Friday will seem like a small eternity.” It’s her turn to lower her voice, “And, Clay, we’ve already waited an eternity…”

“God, Sarah, I’ll see what I can arrange. I have one more package coming for you by pouch tomorrow afternoon. If you get a flight out before that, have the office return it.”

“Really? You know I love what you’ve sent me so far, but if it’s not you, I’m willing to wait until I get home.”

“It’s already set, besides it would be difficult to yank it from the system now. It’s a simple ‘one size fits all’ kind of trinket.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is in case I miss it?”

“Have patience, Colonel.”

“My patience is running out, Spook.”

“Ah, but patience is a virtue, and virtue is rewarded.”

They both laughed, and said their goodnights, without veering into suggestive territory. By unspoken accord, they’d held back on more explicit phone calls, neither wanting to be disappointed if Webb wasn’t entirely healed.

3:45 pm, PST

December 11, 2003

MCOGCC

JAG Annex Conference Room

With a final sweep of her eyes around the conference room, Mac ascertains that it’s as clean as when she took temporary possession – cleaner, really -- and she begins the ‘shut down’ procedure for her laptop. She won’t be returning before her flight tomorrow afternoon. Webb hadn’t been able to get her an earlier flight. He’d left a message on her cell phone informing her of his lack of success, and that he’d been summoned to a lengthy meeting, and would call her later this evening.

A knock at the conference room door reminds her that he was sending her another gift in the pouch, and she surmises that this must be it. She crosses the room, wondering what gift he could’ve sent this time, and opens the door to reveal her gift: Clayton Webb, holding a small holiday paper-wrapped package.

Stunned speechless for perhaps a minute, every fiber of her being snaps to attention at the presence of the very man she’s been craving, and Mac watches the smile on his face widen to a full- dimpled grin as he’s obviously delighted with the impact of his surprise. Especially, considering that she’s a woman who doesn’t particularly like surprises. There’s been one too many nasty ones in her life.

Arching one eyebrow, Mac finally regains control of her voice, “One size fits all? You’d better not be.”

“Tsk, tsk, Colonel. Where is your mind?”

“Ah, not as quick on the uptake as you used to be, Mr. Webb. You should know where my mind is. I sent you a picture. Remember?”

“Of course, I remember, Sarah. It’s why I’m here. You mentioned wanting the gift to be me. Besides, I’ve been able to meet your requirements.”

“Really? Here?”

“Close by. Are you ready?”

Mindful that several of the staff have already passed them in the hallway, and the need for circumspect behavior, Mac responds, “Not quite. I’ll get my things.”

She turns and crosses to pack her laptop into its carry case and Webb steps inside and shuts the door. She turns as he crosses to her, and simply gathers her into his arms. No words escape – for people known to speak with persuasion and eloquence, and Webb’s quick and sarcastic wit, each of them is content, just for these few minutes, to be exactly where they are – no embellishments are necessary.

Mac’s eyes are closed as she breathes in his familiar scent, clean and with a hint of his underlying natural aroma; she’d know his smell anywhere. The surge of adrenaline at his unexpected arrival leaves her trembling slightly, and she clings to him with a longstanding yearning that, at last, begins to find release.

His arms hold her tightly, and, at the first sign of her quiver, he rubs circles into her back, soothingly, calming her in preparation for their public departure. He couldn’t have waited another day for this. She’d consumed his every waking thought – he’d begrudged the DCI any diversion, regardless of the fact that he’d been working on a national security issue or that it meant his career was finally returning to its previously determined course. Sarah Mackenzie’s in his arms, in exactly the manner he’d dreamed for longer than he cared to admit.

It’s Mac who eases the embrace first; she is, after all, still in uniform. Leaning back slightly, she looks searchingly into his eyes, and feels herself mesmerized by the depth of their hazel regard. They maintain eye contact until their lips touch in a homecoming kiss. And then another.

Before things become more heated, Mac knows that she still has to present a professional façade until they are off the base and she’s out of uniform. She takes a settling breath. “Let’s get out of here before something else interferes.” She quickly grabs her carry case while Webb takes her briefcase, and he opens the door to follow her through, his broad, long fingered hand caressing the small of her back, to retrieve her luggage from the VOQ.

4:50 pm, PST

Highway 62 (East)

29 Palms, California

The dark blue BMW M3 slows at the blinking yellow-lighted intersection of Highway 62 and Utah Trail, and turns north off the main highway, leading into the area adjacent to the Joshua Tree National Park. The crisp November air carries a hint of winter, and Mac’s enjoying the wind whipping through her hair. Since Webb’s arrival, she’s been fascinated by his demeanor. Not that he hasn’t exhibited single-minded focus and clarity of purpose before, in their almost decade long association; she muses that it’s simply different being the object of that intensity. Simmering anticipation tugs at the corners of her mouth as she watches him handle the convertible in the clear, late afternoon, the sun is beginning to set and the horizon is glorious in its variegated display of color.

This is the first time Mac’s seen Webb since acknowledging to herself the depth of her feelings, and she greedily takes the opportunity to look at him, as if to memorize his features. Her eyes trace his form from the competent hands on the wheel, up his leather encased arms to his strong profile, noticing that he’s keeping his hair shorter now than she’s used to seeing it. Unconsciously, her lower lip droops in a pout since there’s not as much hair to run her fingers through as she’d gotten used to in Paraguay. Even in the nightmarish twilight that was their captivity, she’d enjoyed the giving and receiving of comfort from the simple gesture of stroking her fingers through his hair. Her fingers tingle with its remembered silky texture, and a strong desire to repeat the gesture.

Webb’s having a difficult time concentrating on driving, and the small voice in his mind keeps reminding him who’s in the car with him; in many ways it’s the culmination of a long-cherished dream. Thus, it’s no surprise that, with his heightened awareness, he notices her appraisal and the attendant pout. It’s sexy as hell, and the direction his thoughts take, imagining what he wants her pouting mouth to be doing, sends sparks of arousal through his body. He welcomes the feeling as a lost friend.

“Something wrong, Sarah?”

“Your hair’s shorter,” the pout’s apparent in her voice, as well as on her lips.

“True. And?” Why the length of his hair’s an issue is beyond him, but his curiosity’s aroused.

“I like your hair, Clay. I like touching your hair.” She leans closer to him, and, in a desire laden tone, “I like stroking my fingers through your hair.”

His breath hitches in his chest, and his heart rate accelerates. “Yeah, I like you stroking my hair, too.” He remembers the immeasurable comfort of her holding him in her lap, and the feel of her fingers granting him succor. He’d no idea that she remembered it favorably.

“How soon will we be there, Clay? I have to touch you.” And, as if she’s compelled by a force greater than she, her hand reaches to rest midway up his thigh. Molten heat travels from the point of contact until her entire body is humming with unrealized, explosive sexual energy.

“Hang on, Sarah. It’s another five minutes, at most.” Webb cannot believe the reaction he’s having from the simple touch of her hand. He feels an urgent spike of need, elevating his almost overwhelming desire for the woman seated next to him, and it’s directly connected to his groin, which begins to stir and harden. As far as he’s concerned, they can’t get to the cottage too soon.

5:00 pm, PST

Roughley Manor Bed & Breakfast

29 Palms, California

Turning off Joe Davis Road and into the drive for Roughley Manor, Webb maneuvers the convertible past the charming, native stone, three- story Manor House, and toward the outbuildings. Driving past the large, scraggly Cypress and Washingtonia Palms that surround the house and Museum, he pulls in front of the privately situated Cottage, kills the engine, and, turning toward Mac, pulls her into his arms for a real kiss. Her lips soften immediately against his, their questing tongues meet and begin a tantalizing, twining exploration that can only lead further. Mac’s breathless moan brings them back to the reality that they are still in the car, and it’s quite uncomfortable with the console between them; the gear shift is digging painfully into Mac’s side as she leans further across it to get as close to Webb as she can. They break off, both breathing a bit raggedly, and smile at each other.

“Shall we?” Webb asks, indicating the cottage. He’s certain of her now, certain of them. The only hint of insecurity has to do with his own physical ability, and whether their budding relationship can survive if he’s not able.

“Absolutely.”

Brushing her lips against his, Mac reaches to press the control unlocking the trunk, and, gracefully extending her long legs, bare under the skirt – a fact that’s been continually on Webb’s mind since she changed at the VOQ -- she angles out of the car to retrieve her bags. Webb’s slightly bemused at his physical response, which is immediate and powerful, to her simply exiting the car. He initiates the automatic closing of the soft top and joins her, noticing her speculative look at the trunk, and the fact that the only luggage is hers.

“What!? I had to stock the kitchen. I have a hungry Marine to keep fed.”

“Oh, spook, you’re quite right. You do have a hungry Marine on your hands.” She arches her eyebrow and reaches for her suitcase, but he’s faster, grabbing her bag and hefting it from the trunk.

Escorting her to the white door, Webb unlocks it and, flashing the dimpled grin that sets her stomach skittering, motions for her to enter. She does, and is instantly charmed by the beautifully restored sitting room with its pale blue walls, maple wood floors, cozy fireplace, and deep plush love seat. She can see slightly beyond the sitting room into a bedroom which has another door leading into what she assumes is the bathroom.

Webb watches as she delights in the Cottage, and waits expectantly for her to discover the bedroom and its four-poster bed, exactly like the image she’d sent him. He knows it’s the same because he’s been staring at the image on his PC for the past week, 18 to 20 hours a day.

At the doorway to the bedroom, Mac whirls to face him, her smile wide, and tears pooling in her eyes as the emotional impact of what he’s accomplished for her -- for them – strikes. Her face reflects her incredulous surprise and sheer joy at the demonstration of his feelings for her.

“Oh, Clay, it’s identical. I can’t believe you did this. Yes, I can. Have I ever told you that you’re a remarkable man? Thank you.” Her voice is filled with the overflow of the emotional impact and has a tremulous quality. She revels in the fact that it’s she who’s made his cheeks flush with pleased embarrassment. Yes, he’s hers. And she’s going to keep him. For as long as possible. There’s a reason she’s a Marine.

“It has an antique tub, as well. Do you want to take a bath before we have dinner?” Webb’s emotions are equally revealed in his voice, and he curses the residual gift from South America.

Mac’s heart contracts in empathy as she registers the slight uncertainty in his tone. It’s not easily detectable, he’s far too controlled a man to reveal his emotions readily; however, she’d been with him in Paraguay, when the veneer had been brutally ripped from him, and recognizes the inflection.

“Maybe later. I *am* hungry, though.”

“Ok. There’s something here, in what passes for a kitchen, or we could go out to an early dinner.”

By the time he finishes the sentence, Mac’s reached him, and she slides her arms up around his neck to look him directly in the eyes.

“Before we do anything else, Clay, I want you to know that I’m very glad that you’re here, and found this place, and want to be with me…” he stops her with his mouth, devouring her, needing to taste all of her. His sudden urgent flare of want can be felt between them, as he grows hard with the feel of her against him. His erection is something he no longer takes for granted, and he’s exultant at its very existence. Her hands begin to pull him closer, one stroking into his hair, the other mapping his torso under the leather of his jacket.

He breaks off, raggedly, “Sarah, you have no idea how much I…”

She stops him with a delicate touch of her fingers to his lips. “I think I do. Do you remember what I said in the restaurant, in front of your mother?” His nod’s reminiscent of the one he gave her in Afghanistan, and it grants her leave to continue, “It was an understatement. I’m not falling in love with you, Clay. I *am* in love with you.”

He groans, and pulls her to him once again, crushing her lips to his, as if he can savor her essence in one kiss. “Sarah, I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t even tell you when I began.” He runs his hands up her arms, leaving a heated trail of goosebumps behind on her skin, and he feels her quiver in reaction.

Elation overwhelms her as she responds to his kiss, his touch, as the coherent part of her brain recognizes that this is the exact psychological moment to test his sexual capability; and she sips his lower lip in between her teeth, while reaching for his pants. She unbuckles his belt, releasing the zipper, and gently caresses his growing erection through the cloth of his boxer briefs. Involuntarily, he bucks into her hand, and she marvels at her ability to elicit this reaction from him after all he’s suffered.

Mac continues to stroke him, not yet purposefully, but lightly, as she nibbles and licks her way down his neck. She runs her other hand further down his body like an advance scouting party, smoothing its way down his shirt, until it meets its mate, and both hands are engaged in gently teasing his erection and testicles; knowing instinctively that anything more forceful would be too similar to the brutal treatment he’d received from Sadiq Fahd’s minions. Webb’s eyes close in pleasure, something he’d been afraid he’d never feel again, and hadn’t thought, until recently, he’d ever have the chance to feel with this woman.

Mac lowers herself to her knees, easing his pants and briefs down his body with her descent. She glances up at him. only to be caught by his look; it’s raw, naked, and aroused. He’d opened his eyes at her movement, and is mesmerized by her kneeling before him; her eyes are black as glittering obsidian in her heated desire, and her mouth’s swollen with the fervor of their kisses. She’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, and he feels another surge of desire strengthen his erection.

“May I try?” she whispers, reluctant to break the moment.

“Only you, Sarah,” is his equally soft reply.

His answer steals her breath for a moment; her heart is so full of love and yearning and sympathy for this complex, caring, difficult man that she’s almost afraid to try. And, recognizing the risk he’s taking, she gathers her courage, letting her own restrained desire loose.

Never releasing eye contact with him, she leans forward until she’s a fraction of an inch from his straining erection, and then, teasingly, she flicks her tongue to lightly lick the tip of his head, reassured by the fact that a drop of clear fluid awaits her. She tastes him, and, at his corresponding harsh groan, lets her tongue explore the rim of his head, while she lightly strokes along the vein on the underside of his shaft with her index finger, feeling the smooth skin with the back of her finger. With her other hand she caresses his thigh, reaching around to his backside where she massages his firm, muscular buttocks, and, in one motion, she engulfs his entire length with her mouth.

“Jesus. Sarah,” he growls. He can’t believe how erotic this is; the woman he’s fantasized about for years is giving him head. Analytically, he recognizes that she’s made use of the perfect psychological moment; that Mac triggered the moment with her declaration, but the realization only enhances his feelings for her. At present, however, the only thing his body cares about is enjoying the reacquainting of nerves with one another, as they begin the long slow build to release, and what she’s doing with her hands and mouth. It’s been months since he’s had an orgasm, and he’s been afraid he’d never have another. And, yet, here’s the woman of his dreams, gratifying his needs before her own. God, he loves her. As this thought skitters across his brain, he feels her warm, wet mouth increase the suction, and his release becomes imminent, driving all coherent thought from him.

“Sarah,” he groans, “I’m going to come.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” she agrees, feeling her own dampness increase as the tone of his voice further stimulates her desire. The vibrations from her hum are enough to send him over the edge.

“Sarah!” Webb yells, as, with an uncontrolled thrust, months’ worth of foreplay and years’ worth of desire trigger his powerful orgasm. Mac continues to suck, swallowing all he has to offer, and then gently licks him clean, releasing his now highly sensitized cock. She stands to hug him.

“I love you, Clay.”

He cups her face almost reverently in his hands and leans in to kiss her, tasting the slightly metallic flavor of himself on her lips and tongue.

“I love you, too. Thank you. I’m glad it wasn’t a disappointment. How you knew…” She shushes him with a gentle kiss.

“Clay, it wouldn’t have mattered either way. I’d still love you. But, now, I want to take that bath. Will you bathe with me?”

“I want to do *everything* with you,” is his heartfelt response.

Stepping out of the puddle his pants and briefs have made at his feet, Webb puts his arm around her, and together they cross through the pale yellow and beige colored bedroom and into the matching, refinished bathroom, where the antique claw footed tub awaits them. Simultaneously, they burst into laughter as they see how very small the tub is. And, as if their laughter’s a plug that’s been pulled, the remainder of the underlying emotional tension about Webb’s recovery whirls down the drain, leaving them feeling gloriously euphoric.

“I think that *everything* isn’t going to include bathing in that! Is the shower big enough for two?” she looks around, and is relieved to see that it’s indeed large enough for two. “C’mon, spook, let’s see what you’ve been hiding from me,” and Mac playfully begins to unbutton his shirt, kissing her way down his chest, paying special attention to the recently healed scars she encounters on her way.

“I think it’s my turn, Colonel,” Webb counters, as he pulls her back up, and begins to undress her. Sliding his hands under her light jersey sweater, he encircles her ribcage, noticing that she’s not as rail thin as she’d been three weeks previously, a subtle testament to her assertions. As he begins to remove the impediment of her sweater, his hands naturally cup her breasts, and he circles his thumbs over her tightened areolas through the silk of her bra. Instantly, Mac arches, leaning into his caresses and for a rough, passionate kiss. His desire flares again, and Webb pauses in his attentions to pull her tightly to his chest where their partially clad skin plays hide and seek. His hands circle her waist to her back, roaming the flex and interplay of muscles under the smooth surface.

When he can draw breath, his voice is like velvet caressing her, “You’re beautiful, Sarah. I want to see all of you,” and he raises her arms to pull her sweater off, resisting the urge to keep her arms hostage as he ravishes her breasts. He throws the sweater across the room, and bends his head to nip her tightly budded nipple through the cup of the bra before returning his attention to her mouth while his fingers work the release. Once her bra’s joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor, Webb uses both hands to hold the weight of her full breasts, and, splaying his fingers, he draws them to a close in a manner that pinches her almost painfully-taut nipples. Sparks of arousal instantly ignite in the pit of her stomach and she becomes wetter than she can imagine.

Mac strokes the fingers of one hand through his silky hair, while he suckles, and laves her areola. She’s arched her back, presenting more of her breast to his mouth, and, as he mirrors his mouth’s actions with his hand on her other breast, the sensations are so indescribably stimulating that she feels the nerves in her clit begin to throb, and she gasps, making a mewling sound. Her sound of pleasure further stimulates Webb, who continues in his quest, and Mac places her hand on his shoulder for balance. She’s not sure her legs will hold her upright.

Webb’s encouraged by her response, and wraps his free arm around her waist, tightening her securely against him, while continuing his manipulation. Mac’s head drops back and her eyes close of their own volition; the exquisite pleasure radiates in rippling waves from each tightly budded nipple, and, when he gently bites down on her taut peak, her shuddering orgasm takes them both by surprise.

“God, Clay!” Mac trembles with the effort to remain standing, and Webb angles them to lean against the sink counter while she regains control of her breathing. She’s never had an orgasm without direct clitoral stimulation before. “How did you know to do that? And don’t you dare say ‘classified’!”

He chuckles as he nuzzles her neck, kissing the sensitive spot under her earlobe, in exactly the right location to elicit another shuddering response. “I pay attention, Sarah,” he says with a slight, justifiably smug look on his face.

“Wow! That was amazing. Thank you.” She loves the brief flash of dimple his smile brings out, and traces the line of his jaw with her fingers, ending with her thumb stroking his lower lip. He nips at it, drawing his teeth across the pad of her thumb, and even this small gesture sends electrifying jolts to her core. She badly wants to take this further, but doesn’t know if he can. Ignoring her own pulsing desire, Mac replaces her thumb with her mouth and kisses Webb briefly.

He responds, “Believe me, beautiful, it was my pleasure.”

Opting for intimacy rather than provocation, Mac proceeds to finish stripping, and, reaching past him, turns the knob in the shower. While waiting for the water to heat up, which, in turn, will heat the stone interior, she glances at him. He’s leaning against the counter, shirt hanging open and completely naked underneath, revealing his semi-aroused state. He simply watches her move. His eyes are almost jade in color, and hooded with desire. She responds viscerally to his possessive look, and her nipples instantly contract. Smiling, she takes his hand in hers, her thumb feathering the remaining scars on his wrist, and tugs him to the shower while sliding his shirt off with her other hand.

Once they are completely naked, they step into the shower together, and Mac inspects the bottles of hair and skin care the Manor has provided.

“Lavender or Citrus? Citrus, definitely.” She drizzles some shower gel into her hands and begins to slick it across his wet, well-toned shoulders and torso, enjoying the luxury of feeling him under her hands. “God, Clay, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

“Jesus, Sarah, I’m not made of stone.” Webb tugs her closer to him, and, when he embraces her, he makes certain to liberally share the remaining gel.

Both deliberately refrain from escalating their play to overtly sexual, not wanting to court failure before Webb’s had a chance to fully recover from his earlier orgasm. They spend several minutes, lathering each other, diligently making certain to reach every inch of skin. They rinse and Webb gets out first. He wraps a towel around his waist, grabs a second one, and holds it out so that Mac simply steps into his arms while he wraps her in the towel. They take turns drying themselves and each other, kissing frequently, tickling inadvertently, and, by the time they’ve finished, they’re laughing hard. They put on the soft, baby blue Egyptian terry cotton robes provided by the Manor and return to the bedroom. Mac eyes the bed longingly, but her stomach growls, loudly.

Laughing, Webb pulls her into the sitting room, teasing, “That’s worse than an alarm clock. I put something in the fridge for dinner. I remembered that you like Thai food, and I knew that Pad Thai would keep, so we each have a salad, and there are spring rolls we can heat up later.”

“Sounds great. I get so tired of base food. I still can’t believe you did all this, Clay. It’s probably the most wonderful surprise of my life, thank you. I know I keep saying that, but it bears repeating.”

“Speaking of surprises, I forgot to give you your gift! Hold on a sec…” and he dashes back into the bedroom to return a couple of minutes later, carrying the small holiday gift he’d held in his hands earlier that afternoon, when he’d surprised her on base. While he was in the other room, Mac had taken their noodle salads from the refrigerator, and is now in the process of putting them on the small white café table, in what passes as the dining area of the cozy sitting room.

“What is it? Didn’t you say something about ‘one size fits all?’“ she queries.

“You can’t really wear it, and I had a hell of a time getting it here. They confiscated the first one, and I had to go to four tree lots on the drive from the airport before I found the real thing. Go on, open it.” He smiles at her childlike anticipation.

Half expecting to find a tree decoration, Mac giggles when the opened box reveals a sprig of mistletoe, complete with a bright red ribbon loop for hanging. She looks at him, surprising a blush on his face, an unusual occurrence for the normally unruffled spy. Of course, she’s been privileged to see beneath the façade before. That he allows her to now only underscores the truth that he loves her. A sense of contentment and simple joy suffuses her.

“What?” she asked, curious at his reaction.

“I’d planned to use the mistletoe as an opening line to kiss you, but it didn’t quite work that way.”

“Sometimes spontaneity’s better.” Stepping closer to him, she traces his flushed cheek, “Besides, I plan on keeping my other gift a lot longer,” and she draws her hand down to his chest until it comes to rest over his heart making certain there’s no room for misunderstanding, “for as long as possible.”

“I’m yours,” he says, covering her hand, where it rests on his chest, with his own, and a bubble of delight wells within him at her words.

“As I’m yours, Clay.”

He leans down to kiss her, in a binding seal of acceptance: gently, promisingly. Nothing more needs to be said.

Companionably they sit at the tiny table, knees interlocked, and eat their salads, allowing their conversation to meander through the mundane. They talk about his flight, how long they’ll stay in California – he’s planned their return flight for early on the 19th, AJ’d granted the 19th to Mac as a travel day as long as they returned in time for the JAG Holiday party at his house. Meredith had talked him into it.

“Just make sure you don’t eat anything Meredith bakes,” Mac warns him.

“Oh, why?”

“It’s inedible. And how did you get him to give me the ‘travel day’?”

In the past, she’d have been furious with whatever man was in her life for making arrangements and decisions for her. Somehow, the fact that it’s Webb who cares enough to go through such extremes to please her only endears him further. Slightly bemused by this thought, she doesn’t hear Webb’s reply. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, I sort of begged him.”

Clay does *not* want to reveal the entire conversation he’d had with the Admiral, which included several references to broken bones – his – if he ever hurt her, and the promise that Webb would never request Mac’s participation in an op again because of the inherent conflict of interest.

“Then I’m more impressed than ever,” she says, and takes the remains of their meal to the trash. “Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks.

“What I want, Sarah, is to take you to bed. I’ve been looking at a picture of a four-poster bed for a week, and imagining you in it with me. And I think it’s time we spent a little time in that ‘preferred destination.’“ He’d moved behind her as she bent to throw out the remnants of their meal, and, slipping his arms around her as she straightens, he nuzzles the hair at the base of her neck, and nips her fluttering pulse point.

Leaning back into the comfort of his chest, Mac pulls his arms tighter, ignoring the screaming of her body to take things further. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.”

They stand like this for a moment, letting the reality of their surroundings sink in, and, as one, finally turn to the bedroom, flipping off the lights along the way.

Once in the bedroom, Webb pulls back the covers while Mac moves the 4 or 5 extra pillows, and then she’s suddenly very aware of the heat of his regard. Again a small flame erupts from her banked desire. Standing abruptly and striding to the side of the bed, Mac slowly, teasingly, unbelts her robe, watching him intently. His eyes never leave her, their pupils dilating with his growing need. Mac suddenly discontinues the tease; because she won’t be able to control herself, if she doesn’t stop now. And she won’t pressure him in that way. She drops the robe, crawls onto the bed, and looks up at him expectantly. He immediately drops his own robe and joins her, drawing her into him.

“Sarah, I don’t know if I can do this again, so soon,” he confesses, not wanting to hide anything from her. He knows her well enough to know that lies are a deal breaker for her, and since many of the details of his career have to remain undisclosed, he’s going to make damned sure to be honest about their relationship. He’s seen the results of not talking to her.

“Don’t you know anything about me, yet? I thought I was pretty direct, but I’ll say it again.” And she pokes him in the chest in counterpoint to each of her words, “I love you Clayton Webb. I’m not going anywhere for as long as we can make this work. I’m a Marine. I don’t give up ground. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughs, and grabs her finger before she can poke him again. Despite the cushioning of his chest hair, the woman’s still a marine, and she’d poked him hard. He pulls her hand to his mouth, watching her eyes widen and darken as he sucks her finger in and swirls his tongue around the tip, drawing a deep moaning breath from her lips. “I’m not giving you up, Sarah. You’re mine.”

“Good,” is her reply, as she snuggles closer to him, the slightly coarse texture of his hair tickling her breasts as she finds where she fits against him, tucking her head under his chin. She inhales his clean scent, the citrus gel and his own natural aroma, and delights in the feel of his slight arousal, knowing that patience would indeed have its rewards.

Webb threads one arm underneath the pillow, angling it to wrap it down Mac’s back while the other rests on her hips, and he holds her close, just listening to the sounds of her breathing. He remembers how much he loved listening to her breathing at night in Paraguay. His thoughts drift to wonder at the distance they’ve come in a few, short months. From what was once a carefully hidden fascination, to a fully recognized and declared love.

“Sarah?” he whispers, only to realize that she’d fallen asleep. She *is* his. He pulls back slightly to look at the sleeping woman, lying naked in his arms, marking each change the past few months have wrought. Intensely relieved that the deep circles he’d seen in DC have faded, and she no longer looks quite so ephemeral. He wouldn’t admit to her how shocked he’d been at the evidence of how deeply his words and departure had affected her. Her physical appearance had done more to convince him of her sincerity than her initial declaration. Pulling her more tightly to him, in an unconscious need to protect, she sighs in her sleep and nuzzles closer. Smiling, he listens to her breathe and drifts off to sleep.

5:30 am, PST

December 12, 2003

The Cottage, Roughley Manor

29 Palms, California

Early morning sunlight begins to filter through the sheer curtains hanging in the bedroom window of the cottage, bringing a glow to the peacefully sleeping faces of the spy and the Marine. As the room warms up slightly, Mac rouses to wakefulness, aware that her body is cradled in Webb’s arms. She’s aware of two things; an urgent need to use the bathroom, and a great unwillingness to leave the comfort of his arms. The urgency of her need wins out, and she eases herself from the bed, careful not to waken him.

Upon her return from the bathroom, where she’s picked up and folded their clothes from the night before, and brushed her teeth, she stands by the side of the bed for a moment. Leaning against one of the four beautifully turned posts, she gazes in rapt amazement at the form of the sleeping man, admiring the clean lines of his profile. She deliberately searches her innermost feelings, seeking discontent, finding none. She can think of nothing to mar her happiness; she truly believes that they’ve a reasonably good chance of making this relationship work. And, without realizing it, a wide smile graces her features.

His gravelly, sleepy voice rouses her from her contemplation, “Are you coming back to bed?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Not really. I missed you here.”

“Idiot, I’m right here.”

“No. You’re right there. I missed you *here*.”

She steps to his side of the bed and just looks at him. He reaches up and pulls her down, then rolls on top of her.

“Now, you’re here,” he growls, and kisses the tip of her nose before he rises to use the bathroom, leaving her tangled in the sheets.

“Hey! Now you’re not!”

“Have patience, Marine. I’ll be right back.”

Grumbling good-naturedly, Mac untangles herself from the sheets, propping herself against the headboard, enjoying the ease they have with each other. She finishes arranging the covers, and looks up to see him leaning in the doorway watching her settle in, his own contented smile plays at the corners of his mouth. Her gaze rakes his naked body, and Mac finds that her lips tingle to touch his, remembering the softness of his lips from last night. At that thought, a flutter awakens in her stomach, and her breath quickens.

Webb notices the shift in her attention, and the darkening of her eyes; he’ll not soon forget their look from the night before when she was on her knees. Just the thought of her on her knees before him stirs his need for her, and he quickly strides to the bed. Not lovers long enough to take their desire for granted, the exploration of their need is still in its infancy. He has every intention of remedying that state.

“Now, we’re both *here*,” he points out, and leans onto the bed to cover her body with his and kiss her properly. Pouring his need and gratitude and love into the twining of their tongues, he devours her mouth in a binding meld that leaves them both breathless, and his erection hard and wanting.

Mac looks into the reflective green of his eyes, the dilated pupils enhancing the tiny flecks of gold, which are always present, but never more obvious than now. She sucks in her breath at the intensity of his desire, and knows that his passion matches hers, and her heart beats in time with her pulsing, urgent need.

“Clay?”

“Yes, Sarah.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that I love you.”

“That’s pretty definite.”

“Yes.”

There is no need for more words between them. Mac pulls his head to hers in another searing kiss. Letting her hands incite his arousal, she smoothes one down his back to his firm, buttocks, the other to run through his chest hair, searching, and, when found, teasing his nipples until they are as taut as her own. For Webb’s not merely a recipient of her exploration. His need to map her is as urgent and wanting. He revels in the throbbing need of his erection, which is as hard as he can ever remember. Levering himself up to his knees, he rests for a moment between her legs, trailing his hands down her torso, caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples, seeing her ragged breathing, her desire causing his to escalate to unbearable intensity.

Mac traps his hands against her breasts, and looks to the raw and hungry expression in his face. It matches her ravening hunger for him. She reaches down between them to wrap her hand around his throbbing erection, needing no more foreplay; 8 months was too long, 3 weeks even longer, and from last night to this morning, an eternity. Spreading her legs further, she raises them in a V and wraps them around his back, urging him forward, onto and into her.

He’s galvanized by her action, and, leaning on one forearm, uses his other hand to meet hers around his cock, and together they guide him to her warm and inviting depths. He sinks himself slowly, allowing her time to accommodate his size, until he is buried fully, and they hold each other for a suspended moment.

Mac cherishes the weight of Webb as he leans on her completely while they adjust to each other. She kisses him again, clenching her inner muscles a little more tightly. He groans, and, taking the hint, begins to move, until he’s almost fully withdrawn, and then thrusting once again until he’s fully sheathed in her hot, wet, inner core. Her legs wrap around his waist tightly as she responds with a counter tilt of her hips, and they find a rhythm suited to them. Moaning his name, Mac leans up to suck on his tongue, urging him with body and voice, as she arches up to meet his thrusts.

He begins to pound into her, and feels her rhythmic grip tightening toward impending release. Webb recognizes her need, and snakes his arm between them to manipulate her clit between his fingers, once again proving that he does pay attention. He pinches and pulls, once, twice, and then presses hard into her small nerve center in a circular motion as his thrusts become erratic.

Mac’s orgasm comes in an intensely powerful contraction, as every muscle in her body snaps into flex and she arches off the bed, head flung back, screaming, “Clay!” Her inner walls clench spasmodically around Webb’s thrusts, sending him over the edge into an equally potent climax, releasing into her with abandon, calling her name as he does. He has an underlying sense of satisfaction that cannot lie quiescent in his mind.

Pulling him against her now sweaty body, Mac kisses him gently in acknowledgment of the hurdle they’ve just conquered. His answering kiss is equally aware of its import. She runs her hands down his sweaty back, still holding him tightly within her; residual spasms shudder through her with decreasing frequency, and she wants him to feel them, as well, to know what they’ve accomplished together.

Finally, he rolls off her, the sweat cooling on their bodies in the slight chill of the December morning. Tenderly, Webb reaches up to brush the damp hair from her forehead, and cupping her cheek, he repeats, “Only with you, Sarah.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Webb,” she replies, as smiles at him.

He leans down to kiss her, and then sits up, pulling her with him. “Shower?” he asks, and she willingly follows where he leads.

“And then you’ll feed me breakfast?”

Webb’s laughter rings loud in the small cottage, until it’s drowned out by the sound of the shower being turned on.

7:45 pm, EST

December 19, 2003

AJ Chegwidden’s Residence

McLean, Virginia

The Chegwidden Holiday Party’s in full swing when Mac and Webb arrive. They’ve just arrived back in DC earlier that afternoon, with enough time to go to Webb’s townhouse first, and then on to Mac’s apartment. They’ve decided to stay at her apartment for the weekend, since she’s been gone for so long. Neither has broached the idea of living arrangements, but having spent the past eight days together, it’s served as a precursor to what they want in the future, and they aren’t willing to let their round-the-clock togetherness go quite yet. Monday will come all too soon, and, with it, the resumption of their frenetic lives.

They’re met at the front door by Petty Officer Coates, who, in a play on words which, as Coates assures them, was ‘the future Mrs. Chegwidden’s’ idea, has been assigned to coat duty. When taking Mac’s wrap, she ‘oohs’ over the emerald silk dress the Colonel wears, and how the black stockings show her long legs to perfection. Mac doesn’t often wear sexy clothing where her colleagues can see her, especially when she’s not involved in a relationship. Too many potential hazards for her to take the chance. With Webb, she has no hesitation. He’s secure enough in her regard, and she wants to make certain he knows just what he’s going to get to unwrap when they get home.

Webb hands Mac through the throng at the front door, wending their way past Meredith’s and the Admiral’s colleagues, their spouses, and significant others. All wish them ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ Mac is gratified to note the number of people who remember Webb and welcome him warmly, and notices his surprise at the welcome.

“It’s the suit,” she teases, knowing full well, that he wouldn’t have worn it if she hadn’t coaxed him. It’s black wool Giorgio Armani that his mother insisted he buy last fall for a family wedding, and, with the crisp cobalt blue shirt that he wears, he’s quite the eye candy for every female eye in the room. He looks slightly dangerous, powerful, and very sexy.

“Well, I like what you’re wearing a lot better, or rather what you won’t be wearing later.” His tone is deep and husky, and pitched just for her ears. He reaches up to cup her face and she leans into his caress, turning her head to kiss his palm.

“Mmmm, can’t wait. Clay, we don’t have to stay too long.” Her eyes begin to search for her host and hostess; might as well get this out of the way as soon as possible. As she scans the crowd, her eyes widen significantly, as she marks the approach of the one man she least expected to see on her first night back. She’d forgotten his reinstatement to JAG. Harriet had told her on the phone this afternoon, but Webb had been nibbling on her neck, and Mac had finished the call in a breathless rush.

The tall, handsome lawyer makes his way to Mac and Webb, and his stride checks slightly at the obvious togetherness of the couple. Rabb hasn’t seen either of them since his return, and the last time he’d seen Webb was the day in the hospital with Catherine Gale. He can’t believe they are actually here together. He feels a slight twist in his heart as he realizes that he’s never seen Mac look as beautiful or happy as she does leaning into Webb’s caress. It’s not easy for him to see; Mac’s radiant happiness, while he’s being treated as the scut man at JAG. It chafes. His normal scapegoat and girl Friday hasn’t been around, and seeing her in Webb’s arms feels like salt being poured into a wound he’s unaware that he had.

Without acknowledging Mac’s presence, Rabb walks up to the couple, and, to complete his irritation, he sees that they’re now holding hands. This physical responsiveness is in sharp contrast to her behavior with every other man he’s seen Mac with. The traitorous tendril of thought that, ‘she’s never been in love with any of the others’ curls its way through his mind, anchoring itself painfully and indelibly.

“Webb, you look ‘fit.’ I hadn’t expected to see you looking so ‘satisfied’ after your experience with South American ‘hospitality.’

Webb hears scattered intakes of breath from those within hearing distance at the snide, underlying tone to the Commander’s voice, and a sudden tensing from Mac’s hand, which is cradled in his. He recognizes the envy and hurt in Rabb’s words, and, turning to look at Mac, shares a brief wordless exchange, her unspoken accord gives him permission, and he gives his full attention to the lawyer.

“I’ve been incredibly lucky, Rabb. My *personal* physical therapist has been spectacularly successful. Excuse us; we’ve just arrived, and have to pay our respects to the Admiral and Meredith.”

Clay drags Mac further into the house, attempting to alleviate any additional conversation with the lawyer until Rabb’s assimilated the idea that he and Mac are a couple and likely to remain so. Webb’s a bit surprised to note the number of approving looks he receives as they pass through the surrounding crowd of holidaymakers. He’s puzzled, until he realizes how many of those whose approval he’s been granted are welcoming Mac with hugs of genuine affection. Perhaps this will be less difficult for her than he’d surmised.

“Webb! Colonel! Good of you to come,” booms the surprisingly warm welcome from AJ Chegwidden, who just witnessed the scene between the three, and wants to dispel any lingering unease. He shakes Webb’s hand and welcomes Mac back. “Colonel, the R&R obviously agrees with you, no more circles under your eyes,” he comments quietly, only for her to hear. But Webb catches it, and turns shrewd eyes on AJ. They exchange a look, more a meeting of minds, and Webb accepts that AJ will support his relationship with Mac. It’s a relief. AJ could’ve been an obstacle if he’d serious objections. Not that he’d do anything officially, but there are always ways; the most obvious being to keep her on out of town assignments.

“Colonel Mackenzie… Mac!” is Harriet’s welcoming cry. She looks desperately in need of some R&R herself. The facilitating of the talent line up for the USO tour had taken every ounce of determination, tact, and energy she had. Sparing none for herself, she’s then poured all her reserves into her family activities. Unfortunately, that’s left little time for Bud, and none for herself. Nothing however can change for long the irrepressible spark of joie de vivre that’s the life’s blood of Harriet Sims.

“Harriet, it’s so good to see you.” Mac hugs her warmly, casting a glance, looking for Bud. The couple was usually in tandem.

Pulling back from her hug, Mac turns to reintroduce Webb to Harriet, but Harriet plows right ahead, “Mr. Webb, it’s so nice to have you here. Happy Holidays.” To his eternal surprise, she gives him a hug almost as warm as the one she gave Mac.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, and to you, as well. Where’s your husband, we haven’t seen him yet?”

“He’s in the kitchen with Meredith. Something about the parallels between Othello and a Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode. I haven’t been able to separate them all night. I think she’s talking him into guest lecturing for one of her classes.” Harriet smiles indulgently when thinking about her husband’s apparent naïveté, which hides an insightful and formidable brain.

“We’ll find him, Harriet,” Mac tells her friend, as she and Webb push forward to find their intrepid hostess. It takes them another half hour to make it to the kitchen. They seem to be the party favor this year. It’s a phenomenon at parties: the couple everyone cannot keep from watching or talking to. The exchange cheerful greetings with many that neither of them knows, and find themselves in conversation with Alan Mattoni, Admiral Morris, and their wives. Then pressing on toward the kitchen and their hostess, they are confronted by Sturgis Turner, who’s no longer seeing Congresswoman Latham. The slightly bitter cant to his mouth softens when he sees Mac’s obvious happiness.

“Happy Holidays, Mac,” he offers. None of the contentiousness that’s colored their recent meetings is in evidence tonight. Mac notices his underlying ennui, and, surprising herself, she gives him a warm hug. “And to you, too, Sturgis. Have you met Clay?” At his negative, she turns and introduces the men. They have a very pleasant few minutes of conversation, and, when Sturgis sees his father arrive, he excuses himself.

Mac leans in toward Webb, pressing herself against him, and whispers in his ear, “Soon, I promise you, soon. We’re almost at the kitchen, and, remember, don’t eat anything Meredith offers.” Turning, she brushes his cheek with her lips, and pulls him once more into the breach, in search of the scholar in the kitchen.

At last they reach the kitchen, where Meredith is holding court, and Bud Roberts appears to be her noble herald. They’re expounding on the fact that the bard is accessible by audiences of greater and lesser education alike, which is why, they assert, he will be taught in schools for the next several centuries. They are hilariously funny to listen to in their enthusiasm, and Webb and Mac find a corner in the kitchen, and simply listen. Webb pulls Mac back into his arms, wrapping them around her waist and lacing her fingers in his. She leans back until her head nestles in the crook of his neck and shoulder. This is the happiest either’s been since their arrival.

Harriet enters the kitchen and firmly pulls Bud from Meredith’s clutches, asserting that they have to get the babysitter home on time, and really must go. Meredith searches her audience for her next conversational gambit and seizes upon the relative newcomers, having just realized they were there.

“Mac, I’m glad you could make it. I was so worried your flight might be delayed. And this must be your Mr. Webb. AJ’s told me much about you, Mr. Webb. I must say if you’re half as good for Mac as what I hear and from what I can see, then I wish you both the very best.” With this pronouncement, Meredith breezes back into the living room in search of her next victim, leaving them alone for a moment.

Webb turns Mac in his arms, and leans in to kiss her, deeply, possessively. He runs his hands up her silk clad arms and finds her back, pulling her closer to him, he nuzzles her ear.

“Now? Can we go now? I want to see you naked, in your bed.”

“Ummm, yes.” She is instantly flooded with desire at his words, and the images that her mind supplies to match them. “We’ll plead jet lag.”

Making their way back to the front door proves quicker than expected, and they retrieve their coats and bid the Admiral good night as he escorts them to the front door. They aren’t the first to leave, though the party still has a full head of steam. They’ve not encountered Rabb again, for which they’re both thankful, until they hear his arrogant challenge ring out in a lull in the conversational tenor of the room.

“Mac, you and Webb are under the mistletoe. Remember? It’s a Christmas tradition.”

Very few people recognize that Rabb’s throwing a memory in her face of when he’d kissed her under mistletoe a couple of years previously. But everyone hears the raw jealousy in his voice, and many wonder how the Colonel will handle it. In the past, her response would’ve been an icy disdain; however, she’s been markedly different since her return from her TDY in June.

Seeing the Admiral glower in Harm’s direction, and enjoying being in his good graces, for the moment, at least, Webb decides to play.

“You’re right, Rabb. It’s the best Christmas tradition I can think of. Shall we, Sarah?” The intensity of the look they share is felt across the room by the Naval Commander, to whom it feels like a slap in the face.

“Yes, Clay, I think this is a perfect tradition to celebrate.” Her sparkling eyes leave no doubt as to whom she wishes to celebrate it with.

They come together as if no one else exists; Webb threads his fingers through her hair and draws her to him in a gentle meeting of lips that’s tender and sexy. No one watching doubts the love between them, except one very unhappy Naval Commander who feels like an ass for having attempted to goad his friend, and possibly having lost her in the process. When they break from their kiss, the Admiral shakes Webb’s hand again, wishing them a good night. As they step off the front porch, Mac tucks her hand in the crook of Webb’s elbow.

“Let’s go home, Clay.”

“With you, Sarah, I am home.”