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Match Point
Author: Pixie Classification: G Category: Good question. Started as a single vignette. Who knows where it's going? I can say this much. It's meant to be light heartedly romantic. Disclaimers: JAG doesn't belong to me. Neither do any of the characters. AN: This is about as AU as you can get. Hopefully I'm managing to stay reasonably in character with these, but since we've never seen Harm or Mac act this way, it's kind of hard to know if I'm getting it right. Oh…and this part is Harm's point of view. AN2: Thanks again to Captain for her beta and for egging me on. If this drives you crazy, it's at least partly her fault.
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I step inside, drop my duffle, and close the apartment door, leaning against it with a feeling of satisfaction I haven't had in months. Sarah Mackenzie is off balance. I sensed the tension in her all the way home. Out of curiosity, I'd made it a point to touch her a few times along the way. A flick of imaginary lint off her shoulder, a hand to the small of her back as she climbed aboard the COD, assistance with the stubborn shoulder harness…All excuses to see what would happen. The results were fascinating. Each and every time I got close to her she jerked away as though she'd been burned. I ignored her reaction, of course. Played it like I had no idea anything was amiss. And…wonder of wonders, that only seemed to make her even more uneasy. Twice I'd caught her staring at me on the flight home. Each time, her glance skittered off mine when I met her eyes, shifting to stare out a window or focus on some fascinating detail within the aircraft. I know she's wondering what I'm going to do next, and that not knowing is probably making her crazy. Let her wonder. I've waited eight years for the time to be right for this. I think back to the day we met. "In a rose garden," she'd told her uncle. That wasn't strictly true. Still, it was close enough. I'd felt the spark the first time I looked into her eyes. True, a good part of my feelings that day were wrapped up in the stunning fact that Mac could've been Diane's clone, but underneath that, deep down inside, I'd felt a spark of awareness that was all about Sarah Mackenzie. That spark had never died. It had flickered, grown weak, been blown back and forth by the fickle winds of our tangled lives, but it had never gone out. Now. Finally. It's time to fan it into flame, and I intend to do just that. Many years ago when I'd been a boy scout, my den leader had shown us how to nurture a tiny spark, feeding it little scraps of bark and tiny twigs until it flickered into flame. Gradually, he'd added bigger wood, until finally he'd had a healthy fire with a bed of coals under it that would last for hours. I want that flame with Mac. I want the color, and the light, and the heat that keeps you warm on a cold night and sears your skin when you get too close. But I also want the bed of coals that lasts forever. I shake my head at the fanciful thoughts and pick up my duffle, carrying it to my room to empty it out. "What's needed now," I say to the empty room as I toss my dirty things in the hamper, "is a plan." I finish putting things away and go to the kitchen. Luckily, there's one more beer in the fridge. I pop the cap off the bottle and settle myself on the couch. The long draft of cold liquid floods down my throat, and I go back to thinking about Mac. Mr. Bryant always said that if you put big sticks on the flame too soon, you'll smother it, and it'll go out. There's no need to jump right into the grand gestures, the fancy night on the town that'd likely leave both of us feeling as awkward and tongue tied as a couple of teenagers. No. What's needed here is a light touch. Tinder. I play with ideas for a while, examining and then discarding each of them until I finally settle on one that's guaranteed to have her climbing the walls. I pull the phone book out and flip it open. Within seconds, I've found what I want. I pick up the phone, punch in the numbers, and sit back to wait.
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