A/N: Don't judge, this story was inspired by Taylor Swift's song "Delicate." And as I thought about when I initially dreamed up this story and listened to some T-Swift to get me "in the mood," I remembered I also took inspiration from her songs "Style" and "This Love." Yup, true story. I suppose mainly AU, some of the characterizations may be a little off as well as various timelines, but as it starts after the disaster that was Paraguay I think we can all agree Harm and Mac were just a tad messed up. Beware, Adult Content. No Beta, mistakes are mine. I don't write very often (once a decade-welcome to my 40's!), so if this is read be kind ;).

Disclaimer: Not mine, of course. Although DJE would not be kicked out for eating crackers in bed...

Delicate

Chapter 1: You Can Meet Me in the Back

2203 Local

Rooster's Club

She wove through the pressing crowd, eyes scanning for that familiar face. She had dreamt about him tonight, a pleasant change from the blood soaked, screaming nightmares she usually endured. Oh, they fought in the dream, hurled furious insults at each other, and as per usual, she woke up in a cold sweat and tears. But this time, she also felt achingly aroused. God, she missed him. Sure, she had Clay…it was nice to have someone who knew what she had gone through, someone who she didn't even have to rehash it all with, someone who didn't ask prying questions for which the only answer was, "classified." Someone who understood without her even having to say the words. She didn't feel so alone when she was with him—didn't feel so lost. She could focus on what he was going through, how he was recovering instead of the turmoil in her own mind, and he could provide the occasional shoulder to cry on. Well, she didn't actually cry, not in front of him, but it did give her a little more strength to carry on. She at least felt a little less numb after spending time with him. But Clay wasn't…him.

Inwardly, she laughed ruefully at herself. She couldn't even think his name. No, that would force her to feel. Anger, hurt, and something else that she buried deeper and deeper. And that could not happen. Not if she wanted to keep herself from breaking into a million little pieces. Only a delicate thread of marine discipline kept her together.

No, Clay wasn't…"Harm." There, she said it. Out loud. It made her stomach drop down to the floor and caused her to freeze in the middle of the room. She could see him now. He was leaning casually against the end of the bar, glass of clear liquid in his hand, eyes cast downward. She couldn't take her eyes off him, yet she couldn't seem to propel herself forward. He was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. His hair had grown a little longer, and although difficult to see in the dim lighting, he appeared to be sporting more than a little 5 o'clock shadow. His black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, clung to his muscled torso, tapered down to his lean waist and hips. A delicious throbbing down low in her body startled her. How could just seeing him cause her core to clench and run wet?

Why now?

She and Clay had been intimate for the past few weeks—yes, she easily responded to his touch and felt safe enough in his arms. He was a surprisingly giving lover—if she let him. Mostly she wanted it hard and fast, passionate. It made it easier to block out the memories of his screams, the visions of the two missionaries as they were executed in front of her, the sound of that damnable car battery charging as she lay strapped to a bloodied table. It also blocked out the bitter barbs tossed between a tired, terrorized marine lieutenant colonel and a tall determined navy commander. And then…then, a heavenly warm bath to wash the dirt and Clay's blood off her, darkened eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea caressing her nakedness like the dying bubbles surrounding her. There was his low, warm voice as he called her beautiful, the almost kiss before they were interrupted….

Yes, Clay was a welcomed distraction. There was love there, no doubt, a gratefulness for his taking on the torture that could easily have been shared between them. He was her friend. But in the end his one major flaw was that he wasn't Harmon Rabb, Jr. She buried that thought deep down, actually rarely acknowledged it, but it was still there, lurking in the shadows of her mind. It was easier and easier to bury her feelings for him—five months and seventeen ignored messages would do that. Now, though, after her eighteenth call was finally answered, it all came bubbling up. It made her heart pound in her chest, her knees weak (what a cliché!), and her center almost painfully ready itself for him.

It also made her angry. At him, herself, Clay—why couldn't she hold onto that "never" she hurled at him? She was tired of the dance, the constant push and pull—the constant need to fight for the top. She knew, though, that she lied—as soon as she heard him accept a job with the CIA and found herself crying in the public bathrooms of the hospital, she realized that a 'never' spoken in anger was the greatest lie she ever told.