“Enter!”

I watch his patented flyboy grin spread over his lips as I open the door. Yet another addition to the huge pile of things that have begun to irritate the hell out of me.  When I don’t speak, his smile fades just a little bit.  Good. Now, he’ll realize I’m serious.  I move to sit in the chair across from his desk, but decide, mid-step, that I would rather do this standing up.

“Harm, we've been friends for a long time now, and I know we've had a good partnership…but this holier than thou, squeaky clean image you’re hiding behind has got to give."  I sigh and raise my hands in a futile gesture, then continue, "Do you know how hard it is to stand by your side day after day and KNOW that I don’t measure up to the perfection that is Harmon Rabb, JAG lawyer?  I’m not good enough, not smart enough, not <concerned> enough.  And I’m sick and tired of trying!”

The patented look of confusion breaks over his face and, disgusted, I turn my back on him.  I know this is coming out of the blue.  After all, we had just finished a high profile court martial with a conviction and we should be celebrating.  But throughout the whole trial, it was there, festering,  How much longer will I have to live with this?  Harmon Rabb Jr. is a continual reminder that no matter how much I’ve grown, how much I’ve overcome, I’ll never be as good as he.

And it all comes down to one thing.  Scars.

Oh, sure, we <all> know the story…how his father was shot down on Christmas Eve and how he had to grow up without him.  Such a sad story; such a hard life.  Yes, he has suffered.  But he hasn't lived through my life. I'm damaged goods and he's still so shiny that sometimes I think I need to wear sunglasses.  I try to cover a snort of derisive humor even as I feel his hand close over my shoulder.

“Mac,” I hear him murmur.  Plead, if I were truthful.  Suddenly, I don’t want any contact with him and I shrug off his hand and walk to his office door, desperate to get out of here.

The tension between us has heightened the normally cozy atmosphere to almost claustrophobic levels.  I bite my lip to keep the recriminations from breaking through and making the situation worse than it already is.  All I wanted to do was talk to him.  And it seems as if the only thing I can say— have been able to say since his return—is hurtful.

But, dammit!  I think I'm more than justified!  During one of the toughest moments of my life, he blithely waltzed into my apartment and told me that he was choosing flying over JAG.  And, in truth, a large of part of me felt abandoned.  Here I was just on the verge of telling him that I loved him and he could care less.  It didn’t matter to him that he was leaving his whole life behind.  No, the only thing that mattered was how much he had to get back in the air.  And then when he wants to come back, does he have to pull in favors…do scut work that only the most junior of officers is assigned…work so damn hard to win back the trust of the admiral?  Hell, no!  He’s Harmon Rabb after all.  He’s perfect.

“Can’t you just, for once in your life, be human?” I shudder at the need I hear in my tone.  Damn the man!  Why can’t I ever win against him?  In an argument, in the courtroom…hell, I can have the best laid-out argument and <all> of the evidence on my side, but once he gets up and starts giving his closing, poof!  It’s all gone.  He draws on the members’ emotions, pleading with them to understand the plight of his client, the reasoning behind his actions.  And, of course, they come back with a verdict in his favor.

He puts a light hand on my shoulder once again, trying to connect with me. And I feel myself giving in,  my mind offering multiple excuses for his behavior and my actions.  Even my body is traitorously responding to his touch, to the hushed whisper of my name.  But this time, I won’t do it.  I won’t give in just because he is the great Harmon Rabb.  No matter what my body thinks.

I turn on my heel, and offering him a self-deprecating smile, I murmur, “You know there <was> a reason for my coming in here.”  Curiosity fills his eyes and he opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a raised hand. “I came to tell you good-bye.  And, unlike yours, this one’s for real.  We aren't going to be partners anymore.”  His face clouds over with a mixture of shock and concern I let out a harsh bark of laughter and retort, “You looked surprised.  I guess you thought that I would transfer out of here, huh?  Sorry, Sailor, no such luck.  I'm the admiral's Chief of Staff; why on earth would I give up such a plum position just because of you?”

I pause and realize that I’ve left him speechless.  I guess he never really understood that underneath it all, my childhood, the tough mercenary attitude I developed to shield myself from pain, still exists.  Good.  It will be easier on us both.  A quick, relatively painless end to our three-year partnership.  That isn’t to say that it won’t be totally easy.  I can already feel the impact of my words.  But in time, the wounds will fade, adding to my collection of scars.

Let’s see, if I look carefully, I can see the old ones underneath the newest additions.  There’s my mother’s abandonment.  My father’s drinking and abuse.  And then there are the deaths:  Eddie, Dalton, Chris… all because of me.

I look up at him one last time, and, in my mind’s eye, I can see the phantom bruises and welts that my words have left on him.  I sigh inwardly, readying myself to deliver the final blow.  “See ya' around the office, Sailor,” I murmur then turn and walk out the door. 
 

END
 

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